


How To Date A Werewolf In 5 Simple Steps

by veksi



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Adopted Keith (Voltron), Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Dark Comedy, Drug Use Mentioned, Horror, Keith and Shiro are Adoptive Siblings, Korean Keith (Voltron), M/M, Mild Gore, Pack Dynamics, Recreational Drug Use, References to Alcohol, References to Drugs, Sexual Tension, Tags Are Hard, Werewolves, at least on lance's end, gay shit, i wrote this for halloween, kind of i thought this was funny, kind of? it's not gonna be too bad, more characters to be added later on - Freeform, ok here comes the real tags, ok there is sexxx but its not EXPLICITLY written just mentioned, this is not a/b/o sorry, trans girl pidge but its referenced in Nice Ways ok, wait is that an a/b/o universe tag, werewolf!lance, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-01-07 12:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12232662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veksi/pseuds/veksi
Summary: How To Date A Werewolf In 5 Simple Stepsby Keith KoganeStep 0: Don't do it.-or, the au where lance is a werewolf and keith deals with that mess





	1. Teeth

Step 1: Find a werewolf.

* * *

 

When Keith dropped out of college with crippling debts and only an associate’s degree in psychology, it was obvious he needed to turn to the night life. The following four years of his life had been spent jumping from job to job, wallowing away his time at gyms when things didn’t work out. The first few jobs were okay, and then it sucked; being a bouncer was a shithole, selling weed to high schoolers and college kids got too risky, smuggling over the border into some drug ops in Canada got busted more than he’d prefer. So in looking for an alternative, where all his paths seemed to merge, at the ripe age of twenty-three, he finally found what to pursue; something suitable for a man of his prowess.

By that, he means begging his brother into letting him bartend at the Voltron Pub, the bar that Shiro had recently taken ownership of, and here he is now. Keith has got a good grasp on drink mixing, winging shit, and handling shit customers. He’s been there for a little over a month, earning a little bit of a following for his looks and exceptionally creative methods of turning down potential sexy endeavours, and he’s having it good. It’s great, honestly, and he makes good money for his meager hours and even managed to snag his own apartment near Shiro’s. Life is going well for him, for one damn time in his life, and of course karma’s gotta ruin that.

Tonight has been going pretty shitty. His biggest tip has been a $5 bill, even through the hordes of drunk college kids, it’s not nearly enough to keep him afloat for the week. His service is fantastic, just so everybody knows– it’s just the shitty tipper week, that’s all.

It starts with him. The man walks in with this smug look on his face, confident walk and talking animatedly with two friends. Keith figures they’re all off to gorge themselves on onion rings and beers, but the couple– a pretty, incredibly tall girl hand in hand with her equally as handsome boyfriend– head off to the tables. The one with the tight black jeans and blue blazer comes on over to the bar, sliding himself into a stool and winks at Keith from across the table. 

Keith takes that as his cue, and he comes over, leaning his arms against the wooden table tops and cleans off a shot glass. “What can I get you?”

“Just a beer, thanks. Trying to watch my figure.”

Keith snorts, and the man smiles, revealing a pair of prominent canines. Kind of big, abnormally sharp and pearly white. It’s a tad bit off-putting, but Keith gets weirdos in here with decaying green teeth and split tongues. Dog teeth aren’t nearly as bad.

Keith pours a glass for him, holding it patiently while wiping down the table. The man takes it, and that’s when strike two on the weird factors of the night. His nails– god, they don’t even look like nails. They’re painted a stark matte black, but the length is what gets to him. Strong, thick, _pointed_ nails that seem to grow that way versus a good filing; they look like talons. He lets his eyes linger for a moment longer, noting the way they tapped along the countertops before turning his head away and continuing his work.

Throughout the night, he picks up on a few things:  
1\. The man is named Lance.  
2\. Lance is very loud– annoyingly so, to the point where he’s practically screaming in Keith’s ear about how hot he thinks the long hair looks on him.  
3\. Lance is instantly infatuated with his own character, which is less of a negative and more of a positive. Keith makes sure to lean over as much as possible, obviously.  
4\. He’s about eight beers, two shots of whiskey, and a martini into the night, and hasn’t even broken a sweat.  
5\. The guy is a relentless flirt.

That last little tidbit he finds out when another customer makes his way over. The sexy, hotshot kind of gait he’s aiming for plays no favors for him, because he looks like he’s about to shit his pants instead of try to get some dick. Lance doesn’t seem to mind too much, the way his eyes slink over as said man takes a seat right next to him.

“Hey,” Weird Walk guy says, and Keith recognizes him as one of the customers who’ve stiffed him, “I just couldn’t help but notice, you look fuckin’ _gorgeous_ in this light. Damn.”

Keith thinks it’s too dark to really see anything anymore, but he’s not gonna say anything about it.

“Oh, yeah?” Lance teases, crossing his arms and leaning against the bar. “You don’t look too bad yourself. What’s your name?”

Keith tunes the both of them out for the following hour. Weird Walk– actually, Jason– continuously inches closer to Lance, and Lance is just eating it right up. He’s indulging all of Jason’s cheesy little pick up lines, tracing those fingernails across his hands and leaning his face into his chin. Lance is absolutely milking the whole flirtatious pretty boy thing, but Keith’s not judging– everyone has their own methods of getting laid. 

He will say, though, that maybe his wandering hands are unnecessary.

Jason has currently taken to rubbing a hand on Lance’s thigh, creepy grin curled on his face and gingerly sips taken from his scotch. There’s a bit of a policy in their pub; so long as bartenders are present at the bar, keep hands to yourself. It’s not even a sort of, “oh, figure it out,” deal, there’s a literal sign hanging from the wall that’s visible no matter where you sit at the table. It mainly came to be from Keith constantly cleaning up stupid apple martinis off the tables because people got too handsy. A few complaints to Shiro, and the rule was instated at the pub. Now, that’s not to say people can’t hold hands and kiss a few times; but when you’re an ass like Jason, who’s got a hand hovering too close to Lance’s crotch, and said man has an increasingly uncomfortable expression on his face, he draws the line. So Keith takes it upon himself to slam a glass on the table, nearly knocking Jason out of his chair. Lance sends him a strange face, like he just sucked a lemon or something, then raises a brow. Keith pours him another shot of whiskey.

“It’s on the house,” he mumbles, and very blatantly ignores Jason’s face of annoyance and Lance’s own curling lips. “Hands to yourself, please.”

“No prob, barkeep. Mind getting me a drink too?” Jason asks, voice dripping with irritation. Keith shrugs, gets him a drink with less enthusiasm, and carries on his business.

_Almost._

If there’s one thing Keith hates, it’s creepy fucks who come into his bar, grinding on girls and trying to slip ketamines in their drinks. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s gross assholes like Jason who, at the moment Lance starts calling Shiro over for a basket of onion rings, drops a pill into Lance’s drink and excuses himself to the bathroom. Keith, being the good samaritan he is, starts to switch their drinks because he’s that much of a little shit, until a hand wraps around his wrist and stops him. It’s Lance, who has a soft and tired smile on his face, and his eyes flicker to the drink.

“I’ll keep mine, thanks,” he says, and Keith’s ready to explain the situation, but many things happen before he can. One, Jason starts heading back to the bar, waving his hand in Lance’s direction. Two, Lance downs the drink before he’s able to get a word out, and finally, he– he fucking winks. He winks, and those other two just start up their conversation like normal and Keith has no idea what the fuck is going on. So he just keeps doing his job, which is the one thing he does understand, and distracts himself from that corner.

At around one in the morning, Lance leans to his ear, wobbling on his feet as he gestures to the back exit. He can pick up something about getting out of the pub, Lance’s house, blah, blah, they’re hooking up. There’s only a few bar patrons left, and he’s already seen Lance’s former companions head out with a few quick goodbyes. So Keith starts putting away glasses, untying the apron around his waist and stretching his aching joints out. He hears Lance leave, giggling beside that Jason guy and Keith goes to collect their trash and glasses.

Keith nearly has a fucking heart attack. He’s sort of surprised the first thing he saw was Lance’s phone, left behind– he only knows it’s his phone because of the stupid marbled phone case that read “WOLF” on it. What nearly causes him to go into cardiac arrest is the tiny napkin swath that says “Thanks for the service!”, and underneath it, a stack of hundreds.

His mouth goes dry, hands quivering as he reaches for the money. See, this definitely wasn’t the payment for the drinks because Lance had been continuously paying the drinks as he ordered them, and that little napkin obviously meant it for him, _meaning,_ Keith had just received a six-hundred and twenty dollar tip from a guy who ordered maybe a hundred dollars worth of drinks.

Naturally, Keith runs out from behind the bar, phone in hand and ready to do his good deed for the day as a very minimal, very skeletal version of a thank you. He does this with only a few fleeting words to Shiro, who looks bewildered and tired; as usual. The cash is tucked away in his pocket, and really, he’s about to drop to his knees and beg Lance to please come back if he hands out that kind of money. But, uh, Keith is a big ol’ dummy. Keith forgets about the other guest, who’s currently trapped up against the brickwall of the neighboring gas station in the alleyway between the pub and the 7-11. Lance is dragging those goddamn fingernails across his chest, popping the buttons as his nails click, click against the plastic. Jason looks like he’s having the time of his life, with this absolute stranger towering over him and touching on him in this dirty alleyway. Keith’s about to turn away, but something about the way the moonlight strikes against Lance’s so strikingly navy eyes, practically glowing in the dark– entices him to stay. Something so primal, deep in his belly tells him he’s completely safe, warm, fine. Keith wants to stay. So he does, leaning into the shadows to avoid detection and keeps the phone tight in his grip.

Lance drags those nails back up the man’s pallid chest, lips curled to reveal those maddeningly sharp teeth. Those nails scrape circles around his cheeks, hums rumbling from the depths of his chest and nails prying past Jason’s mouth. Two fingers slip in, a pleasant sigh escaping Lance as he drags those nails down as far as they can go.

“You like it rough, huh?” Lance purrs, and Jason nods along enthusiastically. Something about the act is not so much sexual as it is absolutely mesmerizing, watching every plane of exposed skin shift against the cool moonlight. God, the light plays so beautifully of his–

His eyes are glowing. They are glowing stark, stark blue, pupils constricting and warping into slits until his sclera has dyed itself a void of black, and that piercing blue has shifted icy cobalt against the dark of his eyes. His nails start to shift, growing curled and long into thick claws, piercing tiny holes into Jason’s exposed chest. A muffled protest resounds from him, but Lance pays it no mind as his nails dig deeper into his chest.

“I like it rough, too.”

In all his years, Keith has seen a lot of things, and has been scared by some of them. He’s seen Shiro come home from his time in the military without an arm and an honourable discharge, he’s seen his best friend Pidge fall out of a tree and shatter her clavicle, he’s seen a drug deal gone bad and watched his customer get shot down by his friend, he’s seen himself try to broom out a spider, only for it to give birth and flood his old home with tiny baby spiders. Never once has he seen the sight before him, and frankly, he wishes he could extract his own brain and bleach the memories of it. 

Lance promptly reels a hand back, nails glimmering in the moonlight, literal inches in length and sharper than an eagle’s beak as it flexes, once, twice. Then, that hand plunges itself deep into Jason’s chest, pushing clear through muscle and bones and organs and cutting out Jason’s horrified screams. He can barely yell with the mouthful of fingernails, equally as long in length scraping against his trachea, and Keith can only stand frigid. Jason tries to scrabble for purchase, clawing at the man’s torso only to be swatted away by Lance’s hips and Keith still. Can’t. Fucking. Move. The hand in Jason’s chest starts to creep it’s way out, soaked in dark burgundy and Keith’s ears open. He hears everything from miles away, air reeked of blood and guts and gore, and then Lance draws his hand away. 

Lance’s face shifts. There’s a slight elongation of his face, a rippling jaw that seems to unhinge itself, dark and coarse hair crawling it’s way up his body. He swears, even from the lengths he is away from the man, his teeth have grown exponentially, dripping with saliva and he runs his tongue along his gums. Any sense of safety has fled– raw, unadulterated fear clutching its hands around his heart. Keith has never felt so fucking scared in his life, staring at this weirdly hairy, tall, talon-having shark canine son of a bitch literally _shoving_ his hand into someone’s chest. He would very much like to faint, right about now.

But, oh no. As Keith has said, tonight has been going pretty shitty. He should’ve just left as soon as he got that fucking six-hundred dollar tip, but _nooo,_ Keith was a good person. And now, he got to watch this dude’s tongue slide across his lips, practically drooling at the sight before him, and tug his arm back.

In his palm, is a heart. A real life fucking heart, chest spewing blood and viscera across his nice blazer. The heart itself still pumps rapidly, gushing from pierced arteries and somewhere in the pit of Keith’s brain, who somehow thought a high school anatomy class would hold any importance right fucking now, tells him that the heart continues to beat outside a body for an animal because of nerve cells still firing within the heart. It tells him it doesn’t need a brain to beat, it just needs the brain to tell it _how_ to beat, and Keith tells his brain to shut the fuck up because _oh my fucking god–_

Lance tilts his jaw back, tongue slipping out like a dog panting for a treat, clots of blood dropping on his tongue, and he just– he fucking eats it. He shoves half of it in his mouth, ripping it to shreds with those fucking _teeth,_ blood bursting across every inch of his face, neck, hands. Then he finishes it off, polishing the remainders off his fingers and nails like it was a delicacy. Which, in his case, it must be! Because who. Fucking. Does. That. No one in their sane mind!

Speaking of sane, Keith would like to file a complaint against his own nervous system and vocal chords, right about now. When Lance is sucking out a piece of muscle jammed under his fingernail, hair receding and jaw shifting back into place, a scream slips out of him. Only for a few seconds, but it’s enough to gain Lance’s attention. Keith stands frozen, mouth agape and hands trembling, phone slipping out of his hands and clattering to the floor. Lance’s fingernails have turned somewhat normal, save for the points and darkness in color, but he stalks towards him with said hand. Said fucking fingernails come reaching towards his face, and Keith thinks, _this is it. I’m gonna get my heart ripped out from some hot psychopath with a penchant for hearts, who tipped me six hundred dollars that I never got to spend. Lucky me._

However, that does not happen. Lance drags that fingernail across his cheek, a small grin lilting at his cheeks as he takes a glance between him, and the bar. His eyes have dimmed out, but glow just as strikingly against the void of the night sky. His other hand reaches for his wallet, and he skims through it for– fuck, another hundred dollar bill. Bribe to keep his mouth shut, maybe. Great. Now Keith was in cahoots with some weird fuckin’ heart-ripping mafia.

“Hope you enjoyed the show,” Lance peers at his nametag, tapping it quietly. Blood drips onto the plastic, and once again on his forehead when he tucks a strand of Keith’s hair back into place. His own face is soaking, dripping in gore, but he pays no mind to it. “...Keith.”

With that, he tucks the bill into Keith’s shirt pocket, winking those endlessly shining eyes, and strides away without a word. Somewhere in between totally making Keith turn into jelly, less in the good way and more in “you’re going to kill me” kind of way, he’s picked up his own phone. Nothing is left for Keith to pay attention to, out here.

Except the formerly living body of Jason, of course.

That’s when Shiro comes out the door. He takes stock of the situation: first, his little brother frozen in time, droplets of blood pittering down his chin. Then, he takes a long look at the brick wall, stained crimson and lets a puff of a sigh escape him. And finally, he looks at the corpse of Jason, slumped on the ground with mouth agape and hands switching. The smell of urine, shit, and other dead body related fragrances waft his nose, but Keith can’t find it in himself to hurl. Actually, he can’t find anything, because one moment he’s standing upright, having the worst fucking night of his life, and the next his knees are buckling and he’s sailing head first for concrete.

Oh, so _now_ he faints.

– 

When he comes to, he’s lying on the couch in his work outfit. He’s not exactly sure what happened, because of the splitting headache rattling his brain. Looking to his left, Shiro sits on his recliner, thumbing through channels on TV. Ah, so he’s at Shiro’s house– Keith doesn’t have cable. Wordlessly, his brother hands him two advils and a glass of water, powering off the television and sitting up on his chair. Keith downs the pills, wiping at his sweaty forehead. Before Shiro can get a word out, he holds up a finger, stopping him in his tracks. Keith pushes himself off the couch and heads for his old room in Shiro’s place, which carries some of his clothing should he crash at his brother’s place. Sifting through the clothes, he plucks up the stupid wolf T-shirt he bought in college, that he spitefully cut the sleeves and half of the material off of because his old professor said boys shouldn’t wear crop tops because it’s not manly. Fuck you, Iverson, Keith is manly in his shitty wolf crop top. Shimmying off his weirdly sticky jeans, he pulls on a pair of red flannel PJs, and stumbles back to the couch.

“Okay. I’m no longer overheating, I took advil, I have water. Now tell me,” his brain is flooded with memories, and he nearly gags, “what the _fuck is going on?”_

“...I’m not going to point out the irony in that shirt until I explain the situation. So, uh, you know how you love cryptids and stuff like that?”

“I know this very well. Please, for the love of god, before I puke up last night’s curry, tell me what’s up.”

“Well, ah, you see– you’re always going on and on about how they’re out there, and very real? I always humored you about it, and I thought it was bullshit for the longest time, until Lance started coming to our bar a few years ago. He was seventeen, and I don’t know how he weaseled his way in. It’s not like it mattered, ‘cause I didn’t serve him any alcohol, right? Well, he’s being chill, he’s ordering a ton of food and non-alcoholic versions of drinks, and he’s being a nice guy. Loud, maybe, but he’s fun. Anyways, sometime around the middle of the night, this weird, at least forty-year old weirdo starts creeping on the kid. I’m about to step in, but the look on Lance’s face when I get anywhere near him nearly made me– and excuse me here– shit my pants. He’s indulging every pick-up line he spouts at him, and I’m really ready to get Matt from the back and take him out ourselves. When I go back to get him, Lance is already leaving the bar with this guy, and there’s at least five-hundred on the table. I can’t leave that kind of cash lying around, so I grab the money and I run out to slap some sense into Lance, but– jesus. You haven’t even seen the worst of it, Keith.

“When I come out there, he’s got this guy cornered, smiling all nice– like, freaky nice– and before I know it, he’s got two hands wrapped around his neck. I served a lot of time in the military, Keith, you know that. Since I was eighteen until I was twenty-three, and I saw a lot of messe– oh, whatever, fucked-up stuff. I’ve never seen anything like this, though. I can’t forget it now, even if it’s not so bad anymore.

“I watched his nails start to grow really big and sharp, cutting through this guy’s trachea, and then he– he _pulls._ Rips out his windpipe, letting out this happy little laugh and then he starts digging at the guy’s chest, until you can see his ribs, and I watch him just straight-up pull out the guy’s heart. Starts harvesting all his other organs, too, stuffing them into this bag I saw him carry in when he came into the pub. At that point, I’ve completely forgotten why I was out there, and I’m a dumb fuck, right? So I think I said something along the lines of, “What the _shit,_ Lance?”, and he looks at me with these big ol’ scared eyes. Like, he looks like a puppy! He starts crying out apologies, rubbing his eyes but there’s blood smearing everywhere, and I know there was still people out drunk as hell that night. I didn’t want anyone to come over because god knows what would have happened to the both of us. So I tell him, get inside, I’ll… try to clean this up, but you’re gonna have to explain everything to me.

“It takes a long, long time to figure out what exactly to do, but I send pictures of the guy’s driver’s license down to Pidge to get some information on the guy. No one misses him ‘cause he’s a convicted felon and sexual offender, on four counts of statutory rape against these poor teenagers, man. When I come back, Matt’s staring at Lance with the most confused expression, helping him wipe off the blood and the kid is blubbering at the bar. And, uh…”

“Oh come on,” Keith whines, leaning forward in his seat in anticipation. While it offers no solace in the fact that this has occurred before, it’s leading up to some guidance as to why Lance likes to eat organs from weird creeps. Shiro sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and settles his gaze on Keith.

“You gotta promise you’re not gonna laugh, or call me crazy, or anything like that.”

“Fine, fine! Just– Shiro, seriously, tell me.”

Another sigh escapes his brother, but Shiro continues. “He goes on and on about how he normally doesn’t do this, how it’s his first time fuckin’ hunting on his own and he didn’t know where else to do it, and he’ll start paying the pub a shit ton of cash to keep quiet if they let him make the pub his hunting grounds, and I’m just. So damn confused. I ask him, what are you talking about, man, and he straight up shows us. His face starts warping, he gets super hairy and I swear he looks like an animal, and– and–“

“What?!”

“Lance is a werewolf, dammit!”

Keith stops. He takes a good look around the house, trying to see if Shiro took a hit from his bong when Keith was knocked out on his couch. He also checks for pills, xannies and the like, but finds none. He finally drags his gaze back to Shiro, who’s rubbing at his temples and heaving out rapid breaths. Keith rubs his thumb against his index finger. “...Really?”

“Have I ever lied to you, Keith?”

Keith has to think about that. No, Shiro has never actually lied to him; he’s only ever been critically truthful, even at times when lies may be more appropriate than the honest truth. Still, the idea itself it’s so outrageously outlandish, like he pulled it out of his ass as a front for a serial killer. Still, Keith has been an avid follower of cryptozoology. The topic has always interested him, but things like werewolves and vampires had been so fiendishly tainted by Hollywood and media that he’d never given those a second thought. Yet here he is, witnessing a kind of werewolf unlike anything he’d ever heard of. As far as he knows, there wasn’t much about werewolves being cannibalistic (did that even apply for half-dog half-human people?) and he definitely didn’t know anything about them being weirdly enchanting. In all honesty, it was exciting, but also terrifying beyond belief.

“I’ll bite. I want word from the source, though. I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around this, dude.”

“You are oddly relaxed about this whole situation.”

“I used to deal cocaine to Canadian cartels before I went off the grid, took your last name, and started working honestly. This, honest to god, isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve heard.”

“As someone who was let off on honorable discharge, I should be questioning the fact that you probably still have connections to who knows how many dealers, but considering you get me some great weed for a great price, I’m gonna ignore it. The next time I come over and you’re tripping balls on LSD, I’m gonna take, like, at least twenty bucks from you.”

Keith turns over, dysfunctional brotherhood aside and closes his eyes to sleep off this weird-ass day.

– 

The following day is full of wildly rampant thoughts and an insatiable want for knowledge. Also, blatant fear that he’s gonna get his head ripped off by Lance’s pretty _werewolf_ hands, but that’s just semantics.

He’d like to say he’s acting like a bit of a little shit with his outfit today. He’s wearing that goddamn spiteful wolf crop top again, shrugging a flannel on and truly fulfilling the grunge 90s kid vibe he’d always strived for in his mediocre-by-default life. There’s still a stain of blood by his chin he can’t seem to get out, so he’s just covered it up with some concealer and called it a night. He truly looks like a scene kid dream right now, but he’d better like to point out the fact that he’s wearing that stupid shirt as Lance comes strolling in during closing time. He’d also like to point out the fact that Lance willingly went off with some dude (to eat his heart, but whatever, _unimportant)_ when there was the mildly seductive, hot in the weird emo kind of way, gay twenty-three year old bartender with an ass that just don’t quit, only a phone call away. He definitely busted out the college-aged Does This Make My Butt Look Good? Jeans™ for the night.

Note to self, google if lusting after a werewolf is considered beastiality.

Lance takes a quick glance around the bar, this time by his lonesome. Most of the patrons had already left, save for the few collapsed drunkards that Matt was dragging out by their hair. Both he and Shiro had joined the pub after their service, and both had been let off on honourable discharge due to separate instances of some not-so-lucky run-ins with some unpleasantly corrupted soldiers. Needless to say, they kind of flocked together and smoked away on the weekends to prevent any PTSD episodes that tended to be triggered in the city life.

Flicking his eyes away from Matt and back to Lance, Keith set to work on wiping the table down. Lance had a sheepish smile on his face and Keith swiped the towel in front of him, and continued working as if nothing was wrong. Some may have considered this petty, but Keith figured it was a just revenge considering he watched the same guy eat some guy’s still beating heart.

Speaking of eating, Lance looked rather pristine today. Well, by pristine he meant clean, considered he’d wandered in with an outfit not nearly as nice as the first day. He’s sporting a T-shirt that says something along the lines of, “I’m bisexual and Latino, fear me @Trump,” and just a pair of jeans, and he would totally reach across the table and grab his face and scream how gay and Trump-hating he was, too, if he wasn’t so pissed. So he just smiles at the shirt for one moment, and it’s enough for Lance to catch on and relax.

When he finishes cleaning up, Keith tugs off his apron and jerks his head to a booth, climbing out the bar and forcing Matt to go and make him a basket of fries to nibble on. Matt complains but does it anyways, and Lance slides in the seat across from him. Silence lingers for about ten minutes, as Keith counts his tips for the night. He snatches the hundred dollar bill Lance sneaks his way, because no matter how annoyed he is, money is money. 

“So, let me just start by saying,” he begins, taking a sip from the glass of water Shiro brings over, “I don’t eat people, like, every night. That guy’ll last me a month, at least, so...yeah. Also, nice shirt.”

“Thanks, but I’m more worried about the fact that you eat people,” Keith mutters, making grabby hands at his fry basket once Matt brings it over. Him and Shiro disappear into the back, probably to give Keith privacy. Or make out.

“I don’t expect any less. I worked at first on the assumption that Shiro told you about me, but now that I’m pretty sure Shiro’s already told you–“

“That you’re a werewolf and seem to get off on eating hearts?”

“I don’t get off on that!” Lance cries, arms crossed over his chest indignantly. “There’s only two things that get me horny, and that’s weirdly hot, stoner emo kids like you and especially well fitted blazers. Not that you’re getting me horny right now, ‘cause that would be weird to pop a boner while I’m telling you about my werewolf habits, but if you want we should totally exchange numbers after this, I’ll show you a great, non-heart eating time–”

“Okay, for one, please stop rambling. Also, if you don’t mind, would you just like...explain everything? I’m not sure how much I wanna suck someone off if the only thing I know about them is that they eat hearts.” Keith shoves a mouthful of fries in his mouth, and around it, mumbles, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Lance snorts out a laugh, stretching his back out and settling his hands on the table. “Well, for one, I _am_ a werewolf. Whatever you saw in that alley is definitely real, and yeah, my jaw does that to accommodate for some grub. Technically, I could survive off of other meats– but most of us can’t truly live off of it. You’re constantly hungry, weak-willed, and more prone to preying on some innocent human guy just trying to get to his barbershop appointment. You can eat the whole body, but organs are usually the ones that keep you sustained the longest. And, uh, about that whole weak-willed thing...I don’t just eat anyone, y’know. Me and my pack– the group we’re apart of, those other two you saw with me are wolves, too– have a law. We’re only to eat people who’ve done some fucked up stuff in their lives, and those who no one will miss. That guy, Jason? He’s served about six years for domestic violence and abuse against his ex-boyfriends and girlfriends. That son of a bitch had it coming to him, eventually. 

“You’re probably wondering about the money, too, and that’s pretty easily explainable. Werewolves gotta work, too, and my pack leader is the CEO of some pretty big electronics company. We also sell any… _parts_ we don’t use on the black market, and admittedly, we’ve helped a few guys take out some shitty people. I try not to flaunt the cash with fancy cars and houses, but I do indulge myself once in awhile. So, uh, yeah.”

“So,” Keith begins, swirling the water with his straw and chewing on a fry. The look on his face is one of indifference, but his heart is actually beating rapidly and his brain feels fried. Werewolves are fucking real, and they’re out here running multimillionaire companies like Panasonic to fuel their lifestyles. The idea as a whole is as domestic as it is downright horrifying, yet somehow...not nearly as bad as he figured it would be. “You’re a millionaire vigilante werewolf that wants to fuck me?”

“That’ll do it.”

Again, not the weirdest thing he’d ever experienced. Keith has sold kush to an eighty-two year old man who believed he was God himself, has had sex with a guy who insisted on being called Clark Kent the entire time, and has sold pictures of his feet for a thousand a pop to pay for monthly rent. The state of California is one of mysteries, and hot werewolf bar patrons who eat the hearts of rapists, abusers, and murderers is definitely not something to be worried about. 

“Shiro said something about how the Voltron Pub is your hunting ground,” Keith begins, settling back in his booth and shoving aside his fries. Lance takes them instead, diving in quick and Keith tries not to look at those dangerously sharp teeth. “What’s that all about?”

“Glad you asked!” Lance says cheerily, shoving a mouthful of fries and water in his mouth, swallowing it down before continuing. “Basically, it means I’ve staked my territory here. _No,_ I didn’t piss a barrier around your bar and call it mine– I legitimately have taken ownership of the grounds around here. You know the baseball cap that’s pinned to the wall, and the metal wave symbol hanging out at the front of the pub?”

Keith knows the one. “The one that Shiro swears up and down makes it smell like cinnamon in the pub, even if it’s totally the air fresheners in the vents– and it’s definitely not cinnamon, it’s fucking vanilla that _prick–_ and that everyone always asks about, and I have to tell them it’s the first bar owner’s marking on the place?”

“Yup! That’s total horseshit, aside from the cinnamon thing– that’s how you humans interpret my scent. Those are mine, and you can’t actually tell on the cap because it’s red, but it’s covered in my blood. That wave thing is hollow, so I just stained it before I hung it up. I try to scent-mark this place weekly in case any young wolves get any funny ideas and try to hunt around here. It means that so long as my scent is constantly reeking up the place, no wolves are gonna come around and try to fuck up the balance here, and like, eat someone like you. It’s also a bit of a two-way contract? I get to eat here, and I’m a makeshift bouncer. Shiro can set off an alarm that only I’m able to hear– my buddy Hunk wired it in the kitchen– ‘cause, you know, dog ears and all that. I come runnin’ over, handle the situation, and boom. You’re all good. I also make monthly donations to the bar, so you’re not just getting run dry buying bleach to clean up the alleyways.”

“How much are we talkin’, monthly donations?” Keith asks, shifting his gaze around the bar. Lance has kept a very steady eye with him, but Keith finds eye-contact like that unnerving if it isn’t a bedroom situation. “I’m beginning to think I need some monthly donations to keep this kind of stuff under wraps….I’m joking.”

“About ten thousand, give or take.”

Keith chokes on his water, thumping his fist against his chest to prevent himself from actually dying. “Ten fucking _thousand?_ Oh my god, I am definitely forcing you to buy me a new car, what the shit!”

“I’ll buy you anything you want, Keith,” Lance winks, and it comes off as less sultry and more desperate. With an awkward, toothy grin, he follows up with, “That fell horribly flat. Please ask me something else.”

Keith muffles a laugh behind his fist, collecting his bearings and assessing the situation.

He is currently talking to a werewolf. A flirtatious, vengeful, rich as fuck werewolf who’s not nearly as cool as his first impression let him on as, who's also indirectly offering himself up as a sugar daddy, only with more sugar in the cash form. He’s not complaining, because there seems to be a mutual respect here. They’re both weird and kind of fucked up, what with Lance’s werewolf self and Keith’s own former drug dealing, stoner self. He’s not complaining if this goes anywhere, and in all honesty, he’s had a pretty good time today. So Keith, maybe against his better judgement, slides his phone across the table with his messages opened up and new contact prepared to be filled in.

“I’ve always wanted to hang out with a werewolf,” Keith mumbles, watching Lance’s expression carefully. “Besides, you’re definitely going to need to text me about our upcoming date after that stunt you pulled.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lance replies with a grin, teeth pulling at his lip. “Whatever you say.”

They exchange numbers. Keith is typing in his own number, until he remembers that he actually did have a question, after hearing about the scent stuff and how he was so enamored with Lance in the alleyway, even if it wasn’t on the receiving end. “Hey, how do you do that whole like...siren enchantment kind of thing?”

“If there’s anything you could’ve compared me with, you choice a siren? The ones that are actually super mean to anyone that isn’t a siren? Jeez, you’re cold blooded.”

Keith tries not to get riled up about how exciting it is that his statement implies the existence of aquatic cryptids. Nessie, here he comes. “Sorry, sorry, I’m just curious."

“If you _have_ to know, it’s a werewolf thing. My scent just kind of relaxes people, especially if they’re looking at my eyes. I can get everyone wrapped around my finger in seconds, if I really try. I promise, I’m not always enchanting everyone, even with these deathly good looks.”

“Oh, I had no idea,” Keith voices, absolutely dripping with sarcasm. “I was honestly going to drop my pants and tell you to just have at it on the booth table.”

“You’re funny, Keith.”

Keith shrugs, and after that, Lance sets off his own way after a few quick goodbyes. Keith gathers his things, pulling his bag over his shoulder and setting off towards his apartment. As he’s walking home, his phone vibrates in his back pocket.

 **Lance:** _look up!_

Keith looks up, eyes scanning around until they settle on a familiar icy blue, glimmering against the dark of the night. Lance is leaning over the roof of a building, smiling down at Keith with a stupidly happy grin, before going back to his phone and thumbing out a quick text. 

**Keith:** well hi there  
**Lance:** _i’m gonna do something real special for you ok?_  
**Keith:** alright lol, do it

Lance tilts his head back, absolutely basking in the shining moonlight. His jaw drops slightly, falling agape in a seemingly silent yell, before two guttural growls resonate from above. His neck bobs, once, twice, before his head is completely thrown back. Keith is absolutely mesmerized when a deep howl ripples through the air, ringing wildly in his ears. Lance is having the time of his life, howling in a way that’s so wolf, so obviously animal that no one would give it a second thought. The best part is when howls of responses come. From miles away, from just around the block, howls respond to Lance’s own. All are equally as joyful, equally as playful lilting at the howls combing through the air. They slow, then stop, and just as he’s about to text something, Lance beats him to the punch.

 **Lance:** _hope you liked that._  
**Keith** loved it. is there more where that came from?  
**Lance:** _i’ve got worlds of stuff to show you, keith._

Something about the statement makes his heart skip a beat, and he looks up to see Lance grinning at him even wider. His teeth are impossibly sharp, and he is impossibly _werewolf,_ no matter how hard he tries to forget that fact. Really, though, Keith doesn’t have any problems. He’s doing just fine.

And just as he’s about to wave Lance goodbye, the man leaps across the roof, and Keith gets a look at his legs. Bent at an angle that’s like a dog’s legs, huge in size and powerful as they send him sailing across the rooftops and off to his own home. The sight is surreal, and Keith can’t help but let out a raucous laugh. He heads home, chuckles under his breath and a smile playing at his lips.

This’ll be fun.


	2. Hands

Step 2: Take said werewolf on a date with you, and then take care of him when he wants to eat your small intestines for breakfast.

* * *

Two things Keith has learned in life include never trusting strangers, and never starting off your date night with a trip to the mall at the expense of your potential sugar daddy/fuck buddy/maybe werewolf boyfriend. Unfortunately, Keith has broken both of these rules tonight, as he’s dragging Lance into the closest booth at the food court. It’s 1 PM, about a week after Keith’s revelation about cryptids and he’s ready to seize the day. The two had been texting nonstop about the dumbest shit, and he’d like to say his favorite parts are the photos of Lance struggling to wash the blood out of his only fancy blazer. Nothing quite gets out blood like setting up a camera, taking a video of yourself scrubbing viscera out with a Tide™ pen until you get frustrated, and rip apart your blazer with your freaky wolf teeth. Of course, that’s after you send a dick pic per Keith’s request ‘cause you just roll that way. 

Keith would like to say that yes, he reciprocated, because he’s not a greedy _fuck_ and this weird limbo stage of their eight day long friendship warrants at _least_ a dick pic. And also an ass pic, but that’s unimportant.

What’s important is the abundance of delicacies in the Altea Mall food court. Sure, there’s shit like Sal’s Subs and the Arus Salad Bar, but Keith is zeroed in on the neat little Chipotle corner. Keith loves shit-tier fake ethnic food, and he’s more than happy to chow down on a burrito the size of his face. The problem lies in the length of the line, which stretches down the length of two other food stops. Now he’s all grumpy, ‘cause he’s starving and Lance is willing to pay for as much food as he wants, and he can’t even get in line for it!

“What’s up, peach?” Lance inquires, thumbing through his wallet to count up his cash for the day. That whole “peach” thing stemmed from Keith’s ass pic, obviously, and it’s been sticking for the past week. 

“The line’s too long,” he mutters, stretching his arms and curling his fingers out. A long, disappointing groan resonates out of him, earning Keith a muffled chuckle. “I want Chipotle.”

“You could’ve just asked, y’know.”

The seat in front of him rattles and Keith looks up, watching Lance stalk towards the line. Well, not really towards, but assimilating himself into the line. Beckoning Keith over with a wicked smile, Keith gets up from his seat, willing other food court-goers to have mercy and spare them their seats. He joins Lance in the line, and it’s almost like a wash of comfort just then. Soft, bouncing wafts of vanilla and cinnamon and lavender and ginger, all these scents flood his nose. Those around him seem to notice the smell, grins lilting at their cheeks and Keith has no idea how they’re fucking staying upright. He slumps against Lance, practically melting into the source of the scent, pleasant sigh pearling out of him.

“You smell fucking _amazing,”_ he drawls, pawing at the cotton of his T-shirt. “Legitimately, I feel like I’m dreaming. Or high. Either one– Christ, can you just like, holy fuuuck.”

“Never seen anyone react like this,” his friend comments absently, scratching his chin thoughtfully. Keith whines in protest, and Lance raises a brow, curling an arm around Keith’s form. He doesn’t even care, and normally Keith is weird about this kind of platonic touch, this kind of niceties but he can’t bring himself to draw away. Lance starts talking to the people in front of me, nice smiles and eyes slit thin and irises an icy, icy– 

they reach the front of the line.

Past the mountains and blockades of people, Lance has brought him to the front of the Chipotle line, shining teeth and all as he charmed his way right up to the cash register. Keith senses it’s got something to do with that scent that has rendered him useless, that has let Lance maneuver his little (very nice) butt right up to the lady working the register. He also notes the scents have begun to recede, and Keith can stand on his own two feet. He pushes himself out from underneath Lance’s arm, taking stock of the workers, the menu, then grabbing Lance’s wallet. He’s got multitudes of hundreds in there, and a shiny black credit card which Keith slaps on the counter, determination etched into his face. Lance sighs.

“Brace yourselves, ladies,” Lance mutters as he lets Keith go on a spiel about his lunch choices today. In the end, Lance has ordered himself a burrito (“I still _eat,_ Keith. Food is good.”) and Keith’s order adds up to two burritos, a bowl, six tacos, three orders of chips, and a large diet coke to pack it all down. 

“I’m on a diet, y’know?”

He’s not. He’s definitely not, and he’s pretty certain Lance is impressed by the way he eats. The moment they sit down with their abundance of food– he shoots very indignant looks at the group of teenage boys snickering at their tiny table, covered inch to inch with faux Mexican food– Keith is stuffing a burrito down his throat, awkwardly making conversation around a mouthful of chicken and rice. Lance stares at him in awe, as he inhales his first burrito, takes a gingerly sip of coke, salsa and rice and avocado flecked around his face. He is the absolute image of grotesque, sloppy eating and he absently wipes the residue off with his hand, licking it off his palm. “What?”

“This is literally the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” Lance says, gazing at Keith with stars in his eyes and a kind of hunger Keith’s familiar with. “Like, most of the time people want me to take them out to fancy Brazilian steakhouses or buy them some kind of expensive wallet or purse or _something._ I’ve never had anyone force me to a chain-store mall, order their weight in Chipotle, and proceed to stuff it down like it’s nobody’s business. Plus, spending all of my cash on cheap clothing goods for your practical needs, not just because you liked it on a whim? You are my actual dream, Keith– Christ. This isn’t a food kink thing, this is a people who aren’t afraid to bullshit me about how they act kink, and you are the embodiment of it. Damn.”

Keith really isn’t sure how to respond, and maybe some guilt eats at him for making Lance do all these things for his own benefit. But the playful smile lilting at his face, amused at Keith’s own disgruntled expression wipes away the regret. Keith shrugs, starting in on his bowl– yes, he finished that second burrito. “Sucks that everyone you date seems to be a gold digger.”

“Not _everyone._ Just some people. I don’t know, it’s kinda hard to find anyone who will stick around when they find out you’re a werewolf, y’know?”

Keith ponders that for a moment. A part of him wants to run for the hills because the man before him has killed and eaten humans; yet he can’t find himself to be “furious.” That whole vigilante thing makes him stick around, because with the amount of corruption definitely tucked away in the deep cores of the justice system, it’s only right someone handles the bad apples who got away with it. Well, maybe not the extent Lance does, but the point still stands. He’s gone through some shit in a foster home, dealing with gross pedophilic mothers and fathers, and homophobic siblings and before Shiro, life was a living hell. Someone like Lance, who’s got no real secrets or qualms about gutting a rapist for a light snack is a someone he melds with so easy.

“How’d you find out you were...y’know? A werewolf.”

“Summer I turned four years old. I didn’t get turned or any bullshit like that— you can’t exactly turn werewolf, not anymore. A bite that’s meant to turn you would probably kill the normal human body. We’ve got kind of fucked up immunities and brains, hardwired a different way. I can’t really think of any way that would turn you, unless you were one resilient motherfucker. I come from a line of wolves— my ma and pa were wolves, their grandparents are wolves, and I’m wolf. I kind of already knew that I was obviously different, but that summer is usually when that wolf part deems you old enough to turn. The night I turned four, went all werecreature on the county and it was quite the experience. Didn’t hurt, just...felt weird.

“My mom explained it after I came off my high, and she monitored my monthly turns for a while. Then I got older, and now it’s just a bi-yearly thing. I wolf out real bad those days, and I usually get Shiro to chain me up in the basement so I don’t hurt anyone. It’s effective enough, and now I don’t have to worry about completely wolfing out unnecessarily.”

Keith nods thoughtfully, polishing off the last of his Chipotle dishes and diving into the bag of chips. “When’s your next like...wolf-out session? It’d be nice to know when you’ll come barrelling in begging to be chained up like a Nick Jonas back-up dancer reject.”

“Oh, like, next Saturday.”

Today is Friday. Today is Friday, only a week away from the inevitable chaos of werewolf turnings and chips fall out of Keith’s gaping mouth as he realizes the gravity of the situation. They just now got all nice and friendly, maybe more than most other people would at this stage, and now he has to babysit an angry werewolf who just wants some grub. The thought is insanity in itself, considering how badly Lance made these nights out to be, and now he has to work knowing there’s a werewolf trying to claw it’s way out from the basement. “Can’t you like...reschedule?”

“I am literally going to turn into a complete wolf and that’s what you ask me?”

“I always work Saturdays, I told you this! I don’t want to just– like, not be able to focus and try to get a new bottle of wine from basement, and you’re down there snarling at me!”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t eat Shiro because I recognize him. He constantly is surrounded by my scent ‘cause he works at the Pub, so. Then again, I’m not sure if that’ll apply for you, because you haven’t worked there for too long…” Lance trails off, scratching his chin thoughtfully. Keith sighs and lets out a growl of frustration, and starts slamming his things into the trashcan, gripping Lance’s hand and dragging him off to the holy grail of Keith’s cheap fabric wardrobe: Forever 21.

“If I’m gonna babysit you,” Keith grumbles, letting his fingers relax beside Lance’s own. His hands are warm, and his claws prick a little into Keith’s skin, but it is a comforting presence, “I get to shop for all the things I want. It’s a fair trade to stop you from ripping off everyone’s head.”

“Deal.”

He spends roughly three to four hours dragging Lance around the mall. At first, he tries to refuse any of Lance’s cash– he’s still got a fifth of that tip to spend, even after paying off his rent and getting some basic groceries. Then as his money dwindles, and Lance becomes more and more adamant in his helpfulness, and then Lance starts paying. It wasn’t _his_ fault he leaves with four armfuls of just Things For Keith in tow, and it’s not his fault that Lance has bought himself equally as many things. Regardless, it has happened, and they make a quick trip to the car.

“I’ve just got one thing,” Lance reassures as they head _back_ into the mall, fingers interlocked as he drags him to the other side of the building. There’s a bit of a smile on his face, but it’s unlike most he’s seen; soft, sincere, real and timid. “It’s kind of my happy place, y’know? My mom used to take me here when I was a kid, and I’ve just been going ever since. It’s one of the few non-chain stores in this place.”

Keith nods, falling into step beside him as they enter the store. It’s called _Luxia’s Planet_ and it’s warm and cozy, blue walls easing the ache of his head. Books and knick knacks and other such things line the walls, and at the register sits a pretty girl. She’s got a head of dark brown locks in a braid, swung over her shoulder. If he squints enough, he sees her name tag read Plaxum, and as soon as Lance enters her face brightens. The grip on his hand tightens, though.

“Hey, Plax,” Lance greets warmly, fluttering his fingers in her direction. Keith feels some weird kind of pull to her, all open and giving and soft. She is relaxing, and he kinda wants to go over and give her a big hug. A waft of vanilla hits his nose, and he sees the smirk sprawled on Lance’s face. Quietly, he continues, “Don’t fall for ‘em on me, Keith. Mermaids sure are cute, but we’re the ones on a date.”

...Mermaids. Mermaids walking on two very hu– nope, nope, those are scales. Definitely scales, tiny fins hanging at the back of her ankles as she walks over to Lance, after a weird hand gesture and a quick stock of the store. The scales are a dark blue, shifting green with every step. Her eyes are a wide, near-white blue and a blood red pops against her lid. She’s beautiful, really, but another wash of vanilla snaps him out of his gaze. Right. “Uh, hello.”

“Heya,” she greets, leaning against a table of hand-painted dishware. “I’m Plaxum, nice to meet you. Considering Lance told you already, no, I don’t always look like this. I only go back to normal at night when I go home.”

“Home?”

“Pacific Ocean, obviously.” Right.

A few more niceties are exchanged and Plaxum sends them on their way. They wander around for a bit, Lance showing him around the store and greeting a few other workers milling about. He leads him to a corner of the store, tucked away from prying eyes and illuminated with tiny, tiny geodes. It’s Keith’s absolute dream, and he starts picking through the gems, trying to get a feel for them. He feels so wonderfully calm, picking through these gems. Then Lance puts a hand on his hip, leans in close to his ear, and asks, “Hey, is this okay?”

“Yeah, but I’m guessing you’re gonna do more.”

“Yup. Mermaids don’t really have a sense of smell, and I wasn’t about to blast everyone in a ten-mile radius, and their store’s made for folks like me. I was telling you about me wolfing out, right? I was telling you, like, I might not recognize you because you haven’t worked there long enough but I figured it out. I gotta, like, get my smell on you so I don’t maul your head off. There’s gonna be a lot of teeth and it _might_ hurt when I inevitably bite you.”

“They say I’m one kinky fucker, and I’m really not, but do your thing.”

Lance grins, settling behind him while Keith keeps picking through the gems. Sick, cool, Lance is breathing in _reaaaal_ deep at his neck, laving his tongue over the junction of his neck and shoulders. Everything is goin’ great, then his teeth sort of start pricking at that spot, and Keith drops the gems. It stings at first, the gnawing teeth at that junction but his body starts to numb the fuck out. It feels like a euphoric high, steady against his brain and warm in his belly. That same scent from earlier comes in waves, pulsing stronger and stronger. He doesn’t even feel the prick at his neck because he is so unbelievably relaxed, tension escaping from his shoulders, back, slumping like jelly once more against Lance. It drifts away, creeping back to the source and Keith has to balance himself against the shelves. 

“One of these days,” he wheezes, letting Lance wipe at the bites at his neck, “I will collapse and crack my head open because you pull that weird scent shit. I don’t know why it gets me so fuckin’ sleepy, but it does, and I’m gonna need you to start doing that when I wanna fall asleep.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you smell pretty fuckin’ incredible too, so. C’mon, get your gems and let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Keith stands immediately, gathering his gems in a tiny bag and speed-walking to the cash register. “I hated that, and I hate you, and we are leaving right now, _immediately.”_

Lance laughs all the way back to the car. He also holds his hand all the way to the car, hands soft against his own calloused palms and nails black, dark. Keith thinks for a second about how badly he would like those nails digging across his back, his thighs and stutters in his walk. His hands are wonderful in a weird werewolf kinda way, and as he’s climbing into the passenger’s seat he’d like to get some appreciation from those hands.

So he leans over while Lance is driving aimlessly, really _not_ wanting to pull the car over, fingers gripping the back of his head, fistfuls of black hair.

Oh, Keith’s giving him road head.

And Lance reciprocates soon after.

They also fuck in the back seat. Keith calls him beautiful, and Lance flushes deep red on the drive home.

Keith would call this a _preeeetty_ successful day.

– 

The next night, Keith’s back at the bar. Well, that’s a given, considering he’s always at the bar. But this time, Pidge is here! His best friend, who knows just about every one of his secrets. Like how he met her when she accidentally mistook his email for some other dude’s email who was a total jackass to her, sent thousands of spam emails his way, and immediately messaged him with an apology. They talked, Keith became incredibly close to her when he found out she was Matt’s little jackass of a sister who skipped three grades. Now, she chills out at the bar with a basket of onion rings and only one, one! beer per courtesy of Matt. He elects not to mention that he’s slipped her a second one, because Keith was a bigger rebel at the age of 16. 

“So, you mean to tell me,” Pidge says, around a mouthful of onion ring. The bar is weirdly empty, and he suspects it’s got to do with Shiro. Most patrons are on their way out, hurried by Shiro who’s got a nervous smile on his face. “You’ve been fucking some guy you met here, who’s a werewolf, who’s also your sugar daddy, who’s _maybe_ your boyfriend, who’s also about to turn full wolf tonight?”

“When you put it that way, it sounds terrible,” Keith mutters, taking a sip from a glass of water. Shiro is rapid-fire conversing with Matt, who’s nodding just as frantically as they prepare for tonight. Maybe it is a little bit of a terrible situation, but he quite likes Lance. He’s annoyingly handsome, funny, and is so tender about things that truly interest him. Plus, werewolf dick is kind of this new concept that Keith is all over because oh man, oh hot damn, the stamina is _unreal._ “He’s sweet, I promise. Tonight is probably the worst night you could’ve chosen to meet him, though. You’ve had like two weeks, I’ve been literally giving you a play-by-play of this shit and the day I tell you not to come, you come. How horrible are you?”

Pidge plays at the edge of her skirt, mean-mugging a college boy who tries to sweet-talk her into a night out. He doesn’t get it until Matt narrows his eyes, patting his hip as if to say, _I’ve got a gun if you even fuckin’ touch her,_ and said college kid scrambles out after his friends. Keith knows very well he is not carrying a concealed weapon, but honestly, he would’ve done the same. “It’s not that I’m horrible, it’s that I’m bored, you told me you bought me a dress– which, might I mention, I haven’t seen yet! – and I kind of call bullshit. I think you’re just tripping out on some shrooms and need me to bring you down from your high.”

“I’m telling you, I’m not ly–“

He doesn’t finish his question because Lance comes barrelling into the bar. He’s only in a pair of sweatpants, no shoes or socks or nothing and his car is haphazardly parked by the curb. He grips at the edges of the tables, huffing and panting and Keith can plainly see the lung he’s got weighed down in his hand. There’s blood smeared on his chest, face, and his eyes have warped that familiar icy blue, sclera void and claws dug into the soft oak of the countertops. Pidge shrieks, doubling back into the bar and Lance twitches, waving somewhere towards the basement. He seems to calm for a little, nails receding and teeth blunting against his tongue as he tries to make a coherent sentence. “‘lmost late,” he slurs, dragging himself to the bar and pulling Keith towards his face. “Mad’it, though. Feel like ‘m gonna fuck-fuckin’ tear m’self apart. Hey peaaach.” He kisses him, rubbing the bad of his weirdly fuzzy thumb against Keith’s cheek and offering a smile to Pidge. “Y’look like Katie.”

“... _Lance?!”_

“Wait, you know him?” Keith asks, watching Shiro come on over with a suspiciously silver chain in his palm. He drapes it over Lance’s shoulder and the latter winces, offering another grin to Pidge. “Christ, I– I said his fucking name! Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Lance is a common name, I didn’t know! He was the one that bought me a lot of my first dresses and makeup and stuff, I don’t– fuck, he pays for my HRT, dude! I thought I told you about my rich friend who funds all my computer shit, and buys me new hard drives and lets me work on shit in his basement, what the fuck, Lance is a fucking _werewolf?!”_

“How was I supposed to know that your friend was a werewolf, I literally found out like, two weeks ago! I’ve just been sucking his dick, man, I haven’t been keeping track of this whole situation!”

“So is Hunk,” Lance wheezes, letting Shiro drag him down to the basement, the others following close behind. Matt stays to lock the doors, wrapping chains around the door handles that Keith didn’t even realize existed for that purpose. He thought it was just for the aesthetic, and now they’re dragging his maybe boyfriend to a dingy cellar wall, stringing chains around his neck and shackles to his feet. Keith himself is surprised he’s never questioned them, just chalking it up to some kind of sex dungeon and calling it a day. But it’s obviously not, because the shackles are much too big against any human ankles. So is the collar resting heavy on his shoulder, and Lance bites into another mouthful of lung.

“You are _so_ explaining this to me when you come ba–“ Pidge begins, but is interrupted by an eerie, cold and vicious rumble. It’s Lance, eyes wide, drooling and face warping long. He's beginning to turn, and Pidge stops dead in her tracks. Exchanges a look with Matt, who pulls her behind him and stares at Lance with a strange kind of worry in his eyes.

“Get her out, _now,”_ he whispers, dripping with desperation. At some point, he’s kicked a few bullets to Shiro, silver and ivory and gleaming in his palm. “You know what to do if I escape.”

The implication is oh so reality grounding, realizing the two had precautions should Lance manage to escape and try to kill them all. He obviously doesn't want that, but the fact is, they might have to. Christ, and Lance was so unbelievably, seemingly okay with this, and the idea terrifies Keith that it was so strangely real that they'd maybe have to kill his (boy)friend.

Shiro nods, solemn, and pushes the Holt siblings up the passageway back into the safety of the bar. Matt casts one more glance at him, lips pulled in a thin line 

Locking the heavy door, Shiro exchanges a nod with Lance, and chaos rips through like the tearing of fabric. It’s like an explosion, Lance lurching forward and clawing at the floor. His fingernails start to break against the pressure, then it’s the hard, impenetrable concrete cracking underneath his fingernails. Bones crack and tissue tears blood red, spilling out underneath him as his human body desperately accommodates for the sudden change of size. His legs push him up, up until he’s towering a good three feet over Keith. His sweats tear and tear until they are no more, and his legs erupt with a blanket of dark fur. Then the rest of his body follows, teeth pushing past out of his mouth and gleaming stained yellows against his equally as dirty fur. When all's said and done, Keith takes stock of everything that’s made him so much more terrifying, dripping with the kind of strength that could crush his head between his forefinger and thumb without breaking a sweat.

He is a solid wall of muscle, that’s for certain. Big and hulking and looming over them, shoulders impossibly wide and thighs a shield of pure, raw power. His hands are large, claws clacking together as he flexes his hands, feet bigger than Keith’s entire calf. He’s at the very least nine feet tall, who knows how many inches more, sniffing the air. His voice, a dark and deep and rumbling growl, snarling at the sight of the two of them. Well, more Shiro, growling until he’s backed into a corner. Then Lance, pure wolf and anger and hunger Lance, directs his gaze to Keith, leaning in so close he can feel that hot, hot breath singing against his neck and that’s when he gets a good look at his face.

Obviously, he looks like a wolf. A very humanoid wolf, one all the more terrifying yet somehow reminiscent of his old anthropomorphic deviantART character days with horrendously giant teeth. His jaw is so wide it could swallow him whole, and his eyes are pure crystal blue, pupils tiny and shrunken. There’s still something so weirdly Lance about him, snarling dangerously against his ear, wet nose pressed into the junction at his neck while Keith can only stand frozen in time. This is _horrifying._

It gets worse when a tongue, the size of Keith’s face slurps over Lance’s own lips and backs away. Keith thinks, _the scenting didn’t work, great, now I’m gonna die at the hands of my own werewolf boyfriend._ Yet, Lance stops, the length of his muzzle nearly pressing them nose to nose and–

his tail wags. He starts wagging his fucking tail, only small sweeps to begin with, then it starts thumping heavy against the floor. His fucking muzzle nudges at his armpit, and Keith’s forced to move it, patting his hand against the surprisingly soft fur. Drool covers his elbows– holy fuck. He’s literally petting a werewolf, scratching his blunt fingernails behind his enormous ears and letting said werewolf rub all against him like a needy dog. It’s simultaneously hilarious, endearing, and fucking terrifying when those teeth hover too near his neck. Keith slumps on butt, and makes that mistake only once. Lance crawls all over him, sprawling across him like a Great Dane and practically suffocating him underneath. If Keith didn’t prepare himself, he would’ve been crushed by the amount of weight on him. Lance’s head levels on his chest, tail bumping the floor and whining when Keith stops petting his ears.

“What the _fuck,”_ Shiro whispers in awe, watching Lance carefully. The shackles had kept him far enough away had it not been Keith moving closer, and now they’re just chilling out in the middle of the cellar floor. “I have never in my life seen him– do this. He says he was only calm around his mom whenever he wolfed out, but Jesus I didn’t think it was like this.”

Keith shrugs. And honestly, it’s a comforting warmth against his stomach, and as time passes he gets less scary and more cute, ugly puppy. Shiro leaves when he's certain that Lance won't kill his brother, and goes up to explain everything to Pidge in the stead of Lance. Keith’s pretty sure he passes out, too, slumped across Lance’s fuzzy back because when he comes to, it’s just skin. There’s just a sheet thrown on Lance’s naked asscheeks, and Keith screams. Lance is wide awake, staring at him with wide eyes and a soft smile played at his lips. Unfazed by the scream, he yawns, wincing in pain because _ow,_ smooshed dick on concrete. He just lounges around naked, while Keith gathers himself and rubs at the exhaustion in his eyes. He’s very tired, very sleepy, and kind of just wants a shot of Jager and a greasy burger.

“You mind passing me those pants Shiro left me?” Lance asks, awkward grin on his face. He’s obviously embarrassed by the whole, I slept on you naked after you took care of my overly needy werewolf self deal, but Keith just finds it amusing. So he passes him his shoes, pants, underwear, and the soft hoodie that Keith thinks smells too much like home. When Lance gets dressed, he helps him on his feet and jerks his head to the door.

“Wanna go eat some super unhealthy and cheesy burgers at,” he checks the time on his phone, and there's a furious text that reads from Pidge: "tell lance to answer his FUCKING PHONE WHEN HE CAN because i'm going to yell very loud at him and hunk!" Keith laughs, and turns back to Lance. “...two PM on a Sunday afternoon?”

“God, you’re incredible.”

The statement makes him fuckin’ blush, of all things, and he turns on his heel and stomps up the stairs to avoid any of those nice soft things that make Keith’s heart flutter and his stomach do back handsprings on slippery wooden floors. He pointedly ignores the chuckles behind him, and the hand that he’d been so hyper-aware of all week slips between his fingers. Keith decides, yeah, he can pay attention to this.

–

They share a total of ten burgers between them and a milkshake to split, sipping from their respective blue and red straws as they wolf down their lunch. They look positively horrendous, and at one point Keith realizes that Lance wears contacts literally all the time. This is evident back in the car, when he whines and rubs his eyes, red and raw from overnight (and werewolf) use of his contacts. He plops them into their case, throws it somewhere into his glove box, and slips on a pair of glasses that make Keith’s heart soar. 

“What?” he’d said, shielding his face from Keith’s view. “I didn’t bring any extra solution with me, and my eyes hurt. Don’t be a dick.”

“No, no, I– they’re nice. You’re nice, no, you, well you are _nice,_ it’s just, you look nice! They’re a good look for you.”

“...you really think so?” Lance smiles, pressing his forehead into the driver’s wheel in a way that’s so unbelievably cute, so unlike the guy he’d met two weeks ago who howled for him and gutted a heart out and tried to play it all cool for him. Keith nods, grins, and the two of them turn as red as fire like pining teenagers on their way to a date. It’s so, so good, leaving a kind of hot water bottle on his tummy sort of feeling.

Back to the burgers, ideally the most important part of his current situation. The cheese is dripping against his fingers and the bacon is crisp against the thick cut of the burger, and it’s Keith’s absolute dream. They’re animalistic as they rip into their food, conversing and spitting chewed up fries when a particularly rambunctious laugh escapes either of them. A few families stop to stare when they share a very ketchupy kiss after Lance whines about how he’s wanted to make out with Keith for weeks but can’t do that in public, but otherwise, they’re left alone. 

“Sooo,” Lance begins, twirling his red straw around his finger. “I was just thinking.”

“That’s never a good sign.”

“Hardy har,” Lance quips, flicking Keith’s forehead. “Lemme be cute and shit. I wanna tell you something nice, so listen up, peach!”

Keith lets him be cute and shit. Lance breathes, and continues. “Well, y’know, we haven’t really talked for too long, but today! Today is our two-week anniversary, in case you didn’t know. So, like, I know we haven’t talked for long or anything, but I’ve just...I’ve had such an amazing time with you. Most people can’t handle that wolf thing, or they try to weed money off of me, but, ah, christ, Keith. You try to pay for your own stuff, you’re so nice and blunt all at once and you tell it like it is, and you’re confident in yourself and you don’t take shit from anyone, and. Fuck, what I’m trying to say is, do you want to like, be my boyfriend?”

Keith sputters Oreo milkshake on the countertop, shooting it out of his fucking nose and it’s so wildly disgusting and not cute. It’s not the shy giggle behind his hand and the nods of happiness and the pretty little kisses afterwards, it’s sneezing out chunks of Oreo and coughing milkshake out of his trachea and trying to not fucking die. Lance keels over in a fit of laughter, pounding the table with his fist and gaining the attention of all those around him. Keith joins him, and they’re just cracking up over the mess they’ve made and then, Keith is yanking him forward into another bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue at first, then slow moving lips and hands curled into his short locks and glasses pressing uncomfortably into his cheek. It’s so fucking perfect. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, lips full of Lance and grease on his denim jacket. “We can be boyfriends.”

They leave pretty soon after that, profusely apologizing to the busser and waitress before Lance shoves a wad of cash to the both of them. It’s at least five hundred a pop, and the waitress tries to frantically shove it back to him with broken English, tears welling at her eyes, and Lance whispers quiet. Quiet in Spanish, calming her down and telling her it’s really for them to have, he wants them to keep it and use it for themselves, or so he says after he translated it to Keith. All he knows is that the woman gives him a hug, miles shorter than him with crows feet at her eyes and a joyous smile on her face. She is happy, the busser is happy, and so is Keith.

They kind of ruin the moments of elation, though, when Lance passes by a near empty Yankee candle parking lot and mentions it’d be funny to have sex in the alleyway beside it, and god dammit Keith takes the wheel, wrenches them behind the store, and they totally have sex in that alleyway- doggy style, entirely ironic and Keith literally can’t stop laughing and Lance can’t get his dick in because Keith can’t stop laughing about how fucking hilarious that is. 

Boyfriends are nice, but he thinks werewolf boyfriends are better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY thats chapter 2!! like 1k shorter than the last but thats ok . this is so much fun to write bro and we're gonna get evEN MORE FUN STUFF IN THE UPCOMING CHAPS!!!!! until next friday tho ;);) thanks for reading and enjoying, and see you next time!
> 
> ps. doggy style joke is 100% necessary and ur not allowed to yell at me for it


	3. Scent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY I UPDATED SO LATE... will explain at the end thank uu

Step 3: Celebrate the holidays, attend a cryptid party with your boyfriend, and help him through some things.

* * *

Ah, Christmas. A time of joy and happiness abound, where bells of joy and carols ring through the streets, ornamented pine trees scraping the navy of the night sky. It’s a time of gift-giving and church, a time of true love and grace and appreciation. It’s also Keith’s favorite month, because for one thing, Keith isn’t religious in the slightest. He could give less of a shit about it, ‘cause he’s got other things to do than try to wrap his head around worship. 

No, see, the real joy came from present exchanges. Usually, it’s just Matt, Shiro, and Pidge all gathered in Keith’s apartment, while Keith and Matt are practically inhaling blunts and Shiro’s desperately trying to take care of them. And again, _usually,_ none of them are making enough to get anything that pushes over the hundred dollar line per each guest. However, today, on this holiday of Christmas Eve, it’s at Lance’s house.

And oh fucking boy, he’s surprised he hasn’t seen his house. They’ve been dating for a little over two months, but now that he thinks about it, they always go out on dates or hang out at Keith’s place. He never really cared about it, but looking at Lance’s house now– _wow._ He’d love to get his dick sucked in every corner of this place.

For one, he lives in a private neighbourhood. It’s not too far from Keith’s own place, but the community is infinitely times nicer than everywhere else. Before they could even get in, they had to buzz in via an intercom system, and nearly had their car searched. Which would’ve turned out horrendously ‘cause Keith’s got two bongs and dab rig and like, a literal _box_ of salvia Lance left at his place to get truly fucked up on the day of Christmas. Thankfully, Lance convinced the front desk to do otherwise and leave their poor car alone, and now they’re rolling into his parking lot. 

There is a literal fountain in the front yard. There’s also an abundance of pretty flowers and plants, and the house itself is some kind of fancy magazine cutout. Looming over him, a giant balcony draped with hanging plants, painted a pretty oak brown, and then huge sets of glass sliding doors in the front of the house. He can smell a familiar chlorine, and isn’t surprised to think that there’s probably a pool in the back. The house is absolutely gorgeous inside, at least as far as he sees. That is, until he sees Lance stooped over his plants, plucking out the weeds from his garden. Void of a shirt and donning a pair of denim shorts. He looks hot as fuck from the back, even more so when he stands and brushes the dirt off his gloves. He’s filthy, and Keith feels filthy and he wants to get even more filth–

“Hey guys!” Lance greets warmly, effectively snapping Keith out of his freaky werewolf-driven lust. There’s a few hugs exchanged with Pidge, Matt, and Shiro, all politeness and tiny hellos. Then he reaches Keith, and a grin curls over his lips and Keith pinches his nose before planting a kiss on those pretty lips.

“You act like you haven’t seen me in weeks,” Keith mumbles, in response to Lance’s neck nuzzling. Pidge gags and drags the rest of them into Lance’s house.

“Sure feels like it,” Lance sighs, wistful, lacing their fingers together and leading him into the house. He notes the incessant smell of _Lance, Lance, Lance,_ the very needy whining of Lance’s forehead at his shoulder blades, and the couple he vaguely recognizes from the night at the bar. Pidge is quick to squeal with joy, launching herself at them and wrapping the pair in a tight hug. Lance huffs out a laugh, pulling away from Keith to introduce the pair. “Keith, this is Hunk and his girlfriend Shay. Shay, Hunk, this is my boo thang, Keith.”

Keith rolls his eyes, stepping forward to shake the pair’s hands. “Sorry. My name’s Keith– Lance has told me a little bit about you guys and stuff. You both seem really nice.”

“Lance talks nonstop about you, so I know a little more than I bargained for about you,” Hunk laughs, giving him a firm shake and a blinding smile. “You’re Shiro’s little brother too, right? Oh, man, love that guy. I’ve tried teaching him how to cook, but he’s absolute–“

“Garbage, right? Yeah, living with him for a couple years forced me to learn the bare minimum of cooking.” 

Shiro cuffs the back of his neck, earning a yelp from Keith and an equally hard slap to his arm. Laughs are exchanged, and the group lights up what will be the first of many joints and hits of the night.

He learns quite a few things this Christmas Eve. First and foremost, Lance has procured hideous Christmas sweaters for them all. Keith’s sweater is a deep red with a 3D stuffed reindeer with light-up eyes and tinsel sewn into the shoulders, Pidge’s is a green cable-knit with “Hope the holidays don’t STINK!” and a photo of a reindeer butthole knitted in, which is equal parts terrifying and impressive. Shiro’s sporting a green sweater too, with a pair of humping reindeers and Santa pissing into a chimney across the back, so that’s fantastic. Matt has a green sweater that has weird Christmas houses all over it and lights sewn very badly into it, to the point where said lights are starting to fall out and electrocute the poor sucker every step he takes. Hunk and Shay sport matching sweaters about Shay’s chest and Hunk’s nuts– haaaaahahaha– and Shay loses her absolute mind at the sight of these. Finally, Lance with a hauntingly horrific sweater. It’s just red, but the slogan across his chest reads “JINGLE MY BELLS” and there’s a giant pair of bells stuck to the bottom. Keith is horrified, and Lance is so offensively proud of himself.

Hunk doesn’t smoke, but he sure as hell drinks like a sailor. The guy can handle his liquor spectacularly well, and has got a poker face like no other. He’s also a pretty sensitive guy, to the point where Lance says he looks pretty by his fireplace and nearly bursts into tears. Keith has an inkling of jealousy; he wished he could tap into his emotions so easily, jeez. He also learns Shay is an absolute delight to be around, and her pecan pie is out of this fucking universe. The both are, coincidentally, werewolves. Both of them have cited that out of all of the werewolf lineages, the Alvarez line has been the longest lasting as far in terms of people they’re buddy-buddy with.

“I mean, in terms of who’s family is the oldest, I’d say that Lot–” Hunk doesn’t finish up that sentence, ‘cause Lance is furrowing his brow deep, a mark of annoyance. “Right, right, don’t talk about him in front of you. Sorry. Wait, hey, don’t growl at me! I hate his little wolf posse just as much as you do.”

Lance huffs, and Keith figures it’s quite the sensitive topic, if he can guess from the low rumbling in his chest afterwards. Whoever that family is, has gotta be pretty awful if even _Hunk_ hates him. He’s half tempted to ask, but then Shay busts out Lance’s WiiU, and well, it’s all havoc over a game of MarioKart 8.

Understandably, Shay absolutely _wrecks_ their shit on Rainbow Road and Keith realizes she is a woman not to be trifled with.

Time rolls by pleasantly. They eat, complain about how full they are, then eat after they’ve digested their food for the night. At one point, Keith wobbles over in a drunken stupor, spilling champagne on his bare chest and Lance’s crotch and whining about croutons. Then Keith sobers up and decides to cut himself off for the night, and that’s when the holy grail, the mistletoe of tonight’s event, the blossom in the weeds– well, no, more like the weed around the blossom. No, yeah, they’re just getting out the good ol’ Mary Jane.

See, he’s already giddy off endorphins, so about three hits from his bong and Keith is face down on the carpet, wrists shaking as he tries to push Pidge off of his back. She has been cut off from any substance as per Shiro’s stern request, but he’s almost certain Matt sneaked her a joint. It’s fine, Keith has literally been inhaling marijuana since he was sixteen, it’s cool. However, it’s not cool for his back, because she is entirely heavy and her hair is tickling his cheek and he’s so gross and sweaty. She only gets off when Lance calls for present time, just at the cusp of 11:58.

“Wait, but first!” Lance cries, dragging Keith to his feet and dangling a nugget (Keith would like to note that they did not make chicken nuggets in the time between this event and when they arrived. It’s a weed nugget, please get the facts straight) over their heads. “Oh, Keith, gotta kiss me! Mistletoe!”

“You have a piece of steak in your teeth, you nasty. I’m not kissing you until you take it out, you and your fuckin’ _blue rare_ steak. You’re so gross.”

“...You’ve kissed me after you saw me eat a hand?”

“But at least I know you clean those before you eat them! I don’t know where that steak was grown, you weir–” Keith does not finish his sentence, as Lance smacks their lips together and forces that little piece of steak out with his tongue, shoves it right into Keith’s mouth. That little shit.

“Okay, present time!” Lance snaps back, pressing another kiss to Keith’s forehead before scampering to his stupidly well-decorated tree in the corner. “There’s actually, like, a super important one I want to give out first. Like, legitimately, a really good gift, because a special girl among us turned nineteen recently! Well, in April, but you get my point. Name rhymes with Haiti, nickname rhymes with ridge, who could it be?”

“Hand it over, you ass,” Pidge says, with an obviously totally not actually there stop looking at her stupid smile kind of smile on her face. “I expect it to be good if you’ve been waiting all this time to give it to me.”

Lance hands her an envelope. The wrapping is thin and useless, and he sees Pidge squinting her eyes trying to get a read on the contents. But the letter is blank of any address, any real markers aside from a “Merry Christmas!” message across the top.

“Read it out loud for me, yeah?” Lance asks, and there’s this sort of soft and tender smile on his face that Keith’s heart squeezes at.

Pidge nods, carefully plucking out a nondescript letter from the envelope. Carefully clearing her throat, she begins to read. 

“Dear Lance, it’s so good to hear from you! Glad you’re finally pulling in that favor I offered you after you helped get rid of those vamps around my hospital! I’m booked out for the rest of this year, but I’ve got so many dates opened up for January through September. Whenever you get the go on which day your friend would like...Lance, stop. Lance– Lance, you fucking _didn’t.”_ Pidge’s voice cracks, looking at Lance in absolute disbelief. “Shut up– stop. This isn’t real. You’re joking.”

“I’m not, keep reading, go on!”

“Your friend would like to schedule her appointment for her top surgery. That’s usually the best first step for cosmetic surgeries, and after that’s done and she’s healed, we can start planning for the future of her– oh my fucking god, her other surgeries? Lance, what the shit! Free– free of charge?! What the fuck, man!” Pidge cries, launching herself at him and pulling him into a full-on bearhug. Hunk is clutching his girlfriend’s shoulder, blinking back tears whereas Matt joins into the hug with pure excitement. Then everyone joins in, joy swelled up in their hearts. Keith’s in absolute disbelief, the fucking lengths this man will go for his friends, god, he’s so...wow. He’s incredible. 

After tearful explanations of the surgery and what it entails, and the doctor’s own business card and email for further questions, the gift-giving continues well on into the night. However, Keith keeps his gift to Lance saved for a moment of privacy, and Lance decides that he’d like to do the same. So they continue giving gifts, and it’s rather obvious Lance is rolling in money. However, not a single one of them complain that Lance is spending too much. See, ‘cause all of it feels better at his absolute squeal of joy at mediocre presents like socks and a trip to a spa, like funny cards and sunglasses and car fresheners. It’s obvious he’s never had a Christmas like this, with friends and having fun and giving stupid gifts.

Really, they’re all tuckered out soon enough. Lance drags them all to their guest rooms, tucking them in like the good little werewolf he is. They’re all mostly sobered up, and prepared to sleep off any high they’ve acquired. 

Lance’s room, predictably, is breathtaking. The walls are a soft pastel blue, easing the headache scraping at the edge of Keith’s brain. The bed is a crisp shade of grey, dark enough to contrast beautifully against the blue but not too dark to where it appears harsh. It’s a gigantic bed, and there’s little touches and flairs of Lance scattered across the room. A red lava lamp Keith bought him as a joke. A corner dedicated to ocean related knick-knacks. A tiny pup, curled on Lance’s sheets who looks so asleep that Keith isn’t sure she had even tried waking up during the party. Small things like that that make him so gosh darn happy, as they’re slipping into their pajamas and clambering into bed. As if on cue, the dog scampers off to her giant bed, circling twice before crawling under a sea of blue blanket. Lance says her name is Concha, like the Mexican sweet bread his mom would bring home from local bodegas that carried all sorts of Latino foods. Keith’s heart melts.

So they get into Lance’s bed, huddled deep into the warmth of the grey duvet. Keith plays with the small box in his hand, wrapped up in stupid Santa Claus wrapping paper and embellished with a pretty red bow. “It’s definitely not the nicest thing ever,” he begins, trying to avoid Lance’s piercing gaze. “I did spend the most money on it, though, and it was online so it wasn’t like it was something common or anything, I tried really hard to–”

Lance presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, gently taking the box from his hands. With a reassuring smile, Lance leans back against the headboard. He starts to unwrap the gift, and Keith absolutely wants to snatch it back and throw it out the window. His ears burn red hot as the pretty wooden box is exposed. He picked up the box and it’s contents online, with a hefty price tag with its custom engraving. Lance runs his thumb along the font, and Keith knows exactly what it reads. 

See, the whole werewolf has become a gag to them. Keith will point out dogs humping fire hydrants in the wild boardwalks of California, and say something along the lines of, “Hey, it’s us,” and they both lose their shit. But werewolf’s got a sweeter connotation, even; Keith’ll rake his nails along his back and call Lance his pretty wolf, and just– wolves have a lot more meaning to him than they used to. So on the box, with an engraved heart centered right underneath it, reads, “You’re my favorite in the world, wolf. Love, your peach,” and it’s all heart clenching sap and sickeningly sweet and makes Keith’s chest ache. The look on Lance’s face is worth every second, because his eyes crinkle and he clutches it close to himself.

“Keeeith,” he whines, head tipping forward and forehead bumping the box. “I’m seriously gonna bawl my eyes out, dude. You’re killing me.”

“Open it, you big dummy.”

So he does. Inside is a watch, but it’s really not a standard kind. It’s wooden and a little thinner than what Lance is used to, but would look so fantastic against his delicate wrists. The clock itself is a light bamboo, nearly cork in color but all the more pleasant against the white strap. Lance takes out the watch, turning it over in his palm. 

“Look at the inside of the clock,” Keith says, nerves riding up his throat like surfers on a wave. “I know we haven’t been together that long, so it’s kinda cheesy and– well, you’re sort of the first good boyfriend I’ve had in awhile? So I’ve just...thrown myself into this, ‘cause I’m scared if I don’t, you’ll leave? Which is dumb of me to think, but that’s just something that happens if I haven’t already pushed you away from the start. So, um, yeah. I hope you like it.”

Lance and Keith once met a psychic on a weekend trip to Santa Cruz to have an unhealthy amount of sex in a hotel room and swim til their limbs fell off. She’d pulled them aside, begging to read their auras because, quote, “you two radiated so brightly from across the ferris wheel, I just had to chase you down!”

Keith thinks psychics are absolute bullshit. He totally is down with some clairvoyants and mediums, the kind that scrawl tornadoes on journal paper and tell you about your dead relatives. Psychics, however, who try to tell him he’ll fall in love with some white guy he met at a gas station because he so happened to be thinking about the beef jerky he got from _said_ station, are liars who scrabble for proof in their pretty white lies. However, he’d say aura readings are the least horrible of the reads. She tells him he’s a dark red, flickering like rays of a sun and curling against wisps of pink. Lance is a light blue, pearling and curling like clouds in a sky and puffing up against Keith’s own wisps of red. Red auras are somewhat of a realist, centered and logical survivalists in times of desperation. A man of power and ability, she tells him the pink in his aura is a sign of a budding emotion of love. Lance’s own blue is a pillar, calm in the storm and the image of open arms and truth and kindness in a man revelling in the beauty of the earth. 

“You two make a wonderful violet,” she swooned, and Keith’s brain tells him it’s bullshit. His heart tells him it’s sent on a treadmill of bumps and oil slick and skips and slides and spins full of joy.

So the watch reads “violet”. Just violet, in tiny letters along the edge of the bottom and Lance sets the watch down and clasps Keith’s head in his hands. Soft, and steady and with fluttering long lashes beating against Keith’s cheeks, Lance kisses him. Keith is resolute, absolutely positively resolute in the fact that he’d like to feel so wonderful and airy forever in his life. Then Lance presses a bundle of things in his grasp.

A sweater. Burgundy in color and soft and knitted, with no tags to signify it’s price. A tiny box, when opened shows a pretty braided necklace that’s strung red and blue and fits snug on his collar bone. Then just, a ring. Blank until you look on the inside and there’s a line of stars, pressing kisses into his knuckle and Lance shyly scratches his neck. 

“I made the sweater. I’ve been working on it for a while, and I know you don’t like itchy or weird textures so I tried to find the softest kind of yarn for you. The necklace, well, um, my sister helped me make it. I’m not too good at making those than I am at knitting. And, uh...well, if you want it. The ring isn’t like, a wedding ring or a promise ring or anything that drastic. There’s a little bit of a tradition in the pack where you give the person you think you could spend forever with a ring, and if it doesn’t work out, you take it back. That ring’s been with my family for a long time, and I just thought that we would last for a lot longer than most of my other rela–”

“I love you.”

Oh. That came out easier and a lot louder than he expected, considering he’s never said it before. He’s not complaining, ‘cause Lance surges forward and forty teeth clacking messy sloppy bed-creaking kisses later whispers hot against his neck, “I love you too.”

Christmas time swells up his heart thick against his ribs, and he’s okay with that.

– 

Keith likes smoking an unhealthy amount of weed. Keth also likes his boyfriend of six months, who’s sitting butt-naked on Keith’s bed and lighting up his third blunt of the night. Keith _also_ likes being equally as naked, because they just had sex, and they’re so insanely comfortable it feels unreal. Six months is a long time for Keith; he’s never been in a real, loving relationship where both parties are equally happy and having a grand ol’ time and are able to communicate things so easily. Sure, they get into stupid fights about who’s ecstasy tabs were out while cops were in the apartment building looking for an armed robber, or who fed Lance’s dog an entire chicken leg because she is puking from eating so much for her little stomach, or whose turn is it to take the trash out. None of those things have extinguished their budding flame of a relationship.

However, things are not so easy when the discussion of family is brought up. See, Keith loves his parents– he does, but there’s never been that spark of familiarity with them that Shiro seemed to have. Shiro was his strongest link of family, his rock in the sea of foster care and misfortunes and college drop-outs. When their parents died in a fatal car crash, that was all he had left– Shiro, his brother, father, mother, pillar.

Lance’s take on family is a little different. Lance revels in family, lives in the sunlight of his mother and bathes in the glory of a pack. It’s really not weird, and it’s fine, but it’s so obvious his values on family are so stubbornly good-intended, it makes Keith furious.

“I’ll teach you family,” Keith remembers his mutterings on the roof of his car, picking through cold sandwiches and watching the stars begin to scatter above, speakers thrumming against his thighs. Lighting each other’s cigarettes, popping a xanax, and just. Watching. “I’ll teach you a family you’ve never known.”

Which brings them to right now, when Lance is tugging at Keith’s leg hair and gnawing his shoulder blade, where he mumbles against the curve of his bicep, “You wanna come meet my mom?”

Keith turns quick, blinking owlishly for passing moments, until he regains his senses. Lance is already fumbling when Keith is brought back to Earth, spewing, “Oh, god sorry, I— it’s just, we have this huge...cryptid party thing, whatever, _unimportant._ I always invite Shiro and Matt because Ma considers them honorary pack members, but they aren’t able to make it this year, and she’s really wanting to see who I keep posting on Instagram, so. I just. Sorry.”

“No, dude, it’s cool. I’d love to meet her,” Keith plucks the thin joint from Lance’s fingers, rolling along the curves of the paper. He sucks in, smoke billowing out from his nostrils and parted lips, herb coating his tongue and embers sinking into his skin. He leans back, taking another drag and beckoning Lance closer to him. Exhales into his boyfriend’s mouth, lips hovering millimeters apart until he leans forward and clicks their teeth together in an open-mouthed kiss. “Seriously, I’d be okay with it. You gotta stop worrying so much, babe.”

“Dude, I’m _Lance._ I’m made to worry about your dumb, self-sacrificial ass.”

Keith snorts, and the two of them finish off their last blunt of the night. He’s _real_ skyscraper-high as he’s fumbling on a sweater and his least dirty pair of jeans, and Lance is stuck in the shirt that’s got a slight rip on the neckline from Keith’s handsy-ness. They decided on getting some lunch downtown, and hilariously enough hitting up the single-most expensive stop in the plaza square. Most dishes are minimum $200 whole-ass dollars, and they’re ready to come in high as balls, reeking of (may he add, wonderfully potent Nova OG that his sweet absolutely amazing boyfriend dropped hundreds on an actual _pound_ of) weed and looking like shit. It’s wild, and he’s ready for the restaurant owners to scoff at them like pompous assholes at the sight of Keith’s bike.

So they go with their plan. Keith parks his bike himself, not nearly trusting enough of the valet to handle his baby right and the two walk into the restaurant like true little shits. Sneakers scuffing a mark into the marble floors, giggling at the sight of a businessman’s ass crack peeking over his pants, the works. They order the most expensive things on the menu, and in the meanwhile, talk about stupid shit.

“So, hey,” Lance asks, rubbing his thumb along his knuckles and stuffing a tuna tartare in his mouth. “Kind of a weird question, but you’re adopted, right?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“You ever met either of your birth parents or anything? Like– any idea who they are?”

“Uh, well, my parents immigrated from Korea when my birth mom was about eight months in, but that’s all I know about her. As far as I know, I was left with some guy they apparently knew in Texas who sponsored my parents for a little. Then they just left, and he was forced to take care of me ‘til I was about...mm, six. I went into foster care when he up and disappeared. By then, I was a pretty bitter kid about how the guy was never around, and it was pretty difficult to place me. Then Shiro’s parents came around when I was twelve, talked about how they knew that dude from Texas, and they brought me up from Texas to California. So, here I am.”

Lance scratches his chin thoughtfully, taking a good, long look at Keith. Then he starts doing that weird sniffing thing he’s been doing a lot lately, jaw clenched, and then just– stops. “Yeah, alright. Thanks.”

Weird. But he’s decided that a lot of things Lance does are weird, like when his leg switches when Keith scratches behind his ears, or how he just licks Keith because he feels like it, or how he can fit six slices of pizza in his mouth at once if he unhinges his jaw. 

So they just get their food, they discuss the date of the party, and make their merry way back home.

– 

Suits.

Suits are usually Keith’s worst enemy. He’s pretty average height, but he’s got weirdly short legs. Keith would like to mention at this statement, that he will _absolutely_ rip out your jugular if you even imply he can’t run because of how long his torso is. He was a fuckin’ track champion in high school, and he played soccer in his short time in college, and did a few years of hockey. Don’t ever underestimate his athletic prowess because he has short fuckin’ legs, you inconsiderate little– 

“Tailor says that it should be pretty spot-on. He broadened the chest a little, fixed that hip thing you needed ‘cause I’ve sure had enough handfuls of your butt to know you need a little bit of space, and he fixed the shirt length. If you still need something slightly fixed, I’ll get him to make a house call. Also, please wipe the cocaine off your nose from last night.”

Keith swipes at his nostrils with his palm, scrubbing the remnants off on his dingy old T-shirt. They’re at Lance’s house, and Lance is desperately trying to tame Keith’s lion mane to no avail. Shiro and Matt have texted their regrets on not being able to attend, and he’s charged his phone in case he decides to dip. Lance is tying off a braid, their last-minute resort in case nothing else worked, and he’s slicking back Keith’s bangs out of his face. Now all they have to do is put on their suits, and then they’re just about ready to head out.

Keith, pleasantly enough, decided on something a little out of his comfort zone. It’s a deep burgundy, void of a tie and paired off with a light blue– ahem, or as the tailor so vehemently insisted, _periwinkle_ shirt underneath. Shoes, black, as he’s not in the mood to bust out some avant-garde platforms for the night. Nah, he’s chillin’.

He flattens out the suit, huffing in the face of the mirror. Lance has wandered off to fix his hair and desperately hide the hickey Keith put a little too high on his neck. So Keith admires himself, awkwardly adjusting his underwear and kicking his leg and trying to wear in the pants a little, but _god damn._ He looks fuckin’ hot, all dapper and totally not like a druggie. Okay, not druggie, but at the very least stoner. It’s not like he’s addicted to anything other than that, he just likes to dabble with other recreational drugs. _It’s no big deal._

Lance looks equally good, and really, he’d get into details but he’s afraid he’d pop a boner in this nice suit. So to keep those pretty details out of the tabloids, they make out for a little bit and kind of muss up their hair but Keith decides they look better like this. Lance’s suit is a wonderful royal blue, cool against his warm, tan skin and fits well against his frame. The pants are a tad short, but he’s 100% sure that Lance made that intentional. The striped navy and white socks are proof of this. He looks real, real handsome though, and as they move to the car and head out to the party, he indulges himself many a-look.

The party is enough to stir up a whirlpool of anxiety (and stomach acids) deep in Keith’s belly. Everyone’s blatantly staring at him and Lance, when they already aren’t speaking to Lance. He mentioned something about some of the lower creatures in this whole royal hierarchy trying to butter him up for brownie points with his mother. So they talk about his hair, and his perfect wolf teeth, and how he smells so strongly of a “real wolf”– Keith gets a severe flashback to his foster care days, when many of his white psuedo parents told him to suck it up and be a real man. They talk about Keith, how delectably _human_ he is and soon the creatures figure out the best way to Lance’s side is through Keith. So they get all up in his business, cooing at his soft non-scaly human skin and his normal looking nails and all these things that make him feel like a season finalist on America’s Next Top Model. Then Lance starts to notice, and then the scolding comes and they all run off with their metaphorical (and literal) tails stuck between their legs. 

So the night goes well. Lance’s mother is incredibly spunky, an entire head shorter than Keith’s own self and with a heart of gold. Her talons are a little gnarly, weathered with age but her smile never brims over the cusp of age. She’s a vision of beauty in maturity, and seems to have the entirety of the party wrapped around her finger. It’s good, everything is going so, so good. He’s met mermaids and dined on lobster with dragon women and traded business cards with deep-cover Amazons and shared tortellini recipes with a group of lesbian vampires. 

There’s a couple things that bother him. The first of these things isn’t so much negative as it is strange; see, Lance’s mother has the best nose for miles. Which is a strange statement, but essentially, she’s like the mother of all wolves; a knack for telling when things are off, when the air doesn’t feel quite right. So he’s sitting in a chair, right? He’s playing with Lance’s hands dangling in front of him, while Maria– Lance’s mother– threads her fingers through his hair.

“So, Keith,” she begins, deftly french-braiding the silky smooth locks. “I’ve been noticing something. A weird question, but you’re not like us, are you?”

“Uh, not that I know of. Lance asked the same, though?”

“Hm,” Maria says, tying off his braid with a smile. “Alright. Take care, okay?”

He does. However, he does not do the same later, because shit goes fucking wild. As the night begins to brush the edges of midnight and people begin to mill out, Lance notes a scent wafting in the air. It’s one of menace, of dark intent and masked lies and puppet strings of manipulation tugging at their elbows. It sends the wolves on their haunches, teeth shifting sharp and fingers twitching, spreading, wide and waiting. Brings the mermaids to a tipping point, scales bristling up and flaring wildly, Amazons with fists clenched over cleavers and kitchen knives and vampires hissing and spitting venom to the doors. Keith’s arms flex, playing a tentative hand on Lance’s shoulder– and the doors slam open. Wood splinters against force, flitting to the ground and Keith, Keith can smell that. Venom, pure venom, bile and maggots crawling down his nostrils and clenching around his throat. His knees are jelly, and not the pleasant rolling of waves like Lance brings; but a shattering hammer to his kneecaps, a violent hurricane to his ribs and cracking under pressure.

When he looks up, it’s a face that doesn’t provide any more comfort than the feeling in the room does. It’s a face of all sharp angles and thin brows, curling grin and thrumming bad, bad, bad vibes billowing out of him. Hair stark white against the purples of his shirt, the stormy yellows of his eyes creeping the fuck out of Keith. He’s got that same distinctly _wolf_ thing Lance always seems to portray, but he’s got gnarled fingers and jagged, yellowed teeth and a sickeningly bitter scent it makes Keith want to puke all over his stupid face. Lance fairs no better, with hunched shoulders and growls biting out his lips, until he snarls, “The _fuck_ do you want with us, Lotor?”

Lotor’s a fucking asshole. He’s an asshole because in the midst of rising distress and hulking werewolves spitting and gnashing teeth, he cackles and shrugs his shoulders. “Just wanted to drop in, see how your family is! As usual, void of a few of those problem children and perhaps a father– hm, and is that the _Garretts_ I see? Yes, yes, among the many from that fateful night! Well, no matter. I’ve just come to observe the party, get a taste for your new plaything, Lance. I’ve heard some very delightful things about him!”

“You stay the _fuck_ away from him or I’ll choke you with your own fucking intestine, you piece of shit. You don’t belong here, so get out before I **make you.”** His response is all of gravitating anger, pulsing and pounding in Keith’s skull, air overpowered by waves of absolute rough and burning and stinging and fragrant cinnamons, gingers, cayenne, everything that turns his tear ducts into shriveled raisins. Lotor tilts his head at Keith, at his hand dug deep into Lance’s waist and rocking on his knees and a laugh rakes out of him.

“You may want to be careful with this whole power play thing you’re pulling, Mr. Alvarez,” he quips, plugging his nose and turning on his heel. “Might kill your boyfriend before I get to.”

Like that, he leaves. Keith blinks and he’s slipped out without a trace, and suddenly Keith is stumbling head first into Lance and tripping over his every limb. His boyfriend scrabbles to pick him up, and Keith pushes and wipes his nose and takes two fleeting looks at Maria before promptly puking his guts out on the floor. His sinuses begin to clear, and he scrubs the gross aftermath off with the collar of his nice tux. He wants to go home.

“Take me home,” Keith mutters, tired and exhausted and machetes bludgeoning the bursting brain under his skull. He hurts everywhere, and yeah, there’s times where Lance’s whole wolf thing goes a little too far and he’s gotta get stitches when he bites too hard, like, that’s fine. But this, a new level of terrifying where he can literally slam Keith to the ground with a _smell_ offers a seed of doubt, of blackened fear to plant itself in his heart. While he’s certain his boyfriend would never tear his heart out, it’s there– it’s scary.

It’s unreal.

So he tugs on Lance’s sleeve, and he drags him out to the car where he jams the key into the ignition and books it all the way home. Lance is deathly silent, palms white against the dashboard and nervous glances in his direction but Keith is a solid wall of nothing. Unwavering, unaffected, but so drastically thrown of his axis that he needs to think very long and very hard about what the fuck is going on. Whatever this Lotor business is, he’s wrapped up in it. First, he nearly gets knocked out by some other werewolf’s scent. Then Lance nearly cuts off his oxygen supplies with an overwhelming hot, hot, hot dry air, and now he has to continue on knowing someone wants to kill him. Things sure are looking up for him!

He turns into his own driveway, gripping the wheel and taking ragged huffs before lunging forward and jerking him into a kiss, all teeth and tongue and rough and tired. Just as fast, he pulls away and grabs the door handle, ready to bounce and forget any of this truly happened.

“I’m– I’m not mad,” he mutters, looking at Lance over his shoulder. The expression is one of relief. “but I am tired, and I need a very, very long nap and a lot more explanation about this guy who can and will and very much wants to kill me. So I’m going to go home, and I am going to sleep and mull this over and we can talk when I decide it’s time to talk– and I mean _talk.”_

Lance nods. Once, and presses his palm against Keith’s cheek. “Okay. I love you.”

Keith nods, dusts a kiss to his inner wrist and the heel of his palm, warm and kinda grossly sweaty. “I love you too.”

Then he goes home. His lips taste of vanilla and his nose wafts a sweet cinnamon in his last moments before finally, he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i got super incredibly caught up in school and just. forgot this eXISTED but i swear im still writing this pls dont fret. updates r sporadic but i WILL have one up on friday and if not definitely by monday so i can complete this in time. other than that, hope u enjoyed these boyyos....the plot thickens...the lore conTINUES


	4. Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgive me for my absence im just shit at handling my priorities!
> 
> also slight warning for child sexual abuse in terms of keith's past foster parents. you have been warned.

Step 4: Let yourself breathe.

He takes a few days away from Lance.

In the meantime, Keith gathers himself. By that, he means he hordes gallons of ice cream and eats away his thoughts to avoid the fact that Lance was so violently overprotective, he’d kill someone else _and_ Keith– if only on accident. Like, he’s really not mad about it, because he understands that things are hard to control and Lance is among those who has little to no control over what he does. It makes sense, it’s fine, and to reiterate– he’s not angry that Lance nearly killed him. Lance physically and mentally had absolutely no idea what an oppressive scent could do, especially if he’s never been with someone long enough to find out. No, see, he’s angry about Lance keeping so many damn secrets from him. Keith has spilled out his guts on Lance’s personal autopsy table, and he’s picked apart and sewn back up and torn down again with waves of questions and answers and wonderings and somethings. It makes him livid, because he’s been thinking that Lance has been handing him those same intestines and hearts and livers and lungs when he’s really just getting an appendix. A weird analogy, but– but it makes _sense._ He’s getting useless information, but who knows what kind of worms he’ll unleash with his own questions.

So Keith ignores it. He ignores it for the first night, and the second, and the third until he can no longer ignore it on the fourth, and that’s when his fingers are flying across his phone with a desperation that’s churned in his belly to breathe in that familiarity of his boyfriend. He tries not to let himself get overly-excited, tries to keep his fondness level at a minimum because who knows what a little sweet talkin’ from Lance will do to his judgement. So at the cusp of 2 in the morning, when the moon simmers high above and Keith’s starting to lose feeling in his butt from lying down for too long, he tells Lance to come over. Not surprisingly, knuckles are rapping at his door only minutes later, and he opens up to the huffing, wolf-legged form of Lance.

It’s a little off-putting to see him. Like he’s a celebrity at his door step, fidgeting at his stupid “WHALECUM” mask that Pidge bought him at a garage sale. His hands are stuffed into his pockets and his hair is messy in the, “I ran two blocks to get here” kind of way and he looks exhausted. Of course, said pockets are stretched impossibly wide because the spandex of the athletic leggings are barely able to handle the hulking muscles of Lance’s legs. If he’s really being honest, he can’t see his boyfriend’s face until he starts shifting back, legs shrinking painfully and then he meets those pretty blues eye to eye.

Lance tries to lean in for a kiss. It’s a heart-warming gesture in its practice, but right now Keith needs his boundaries; so he mashes the heel of his palm into Lance’s lips and the man nods, solemn if not relieved Keith has a coherent mind to reject his advances. “Hi, Keith,” wheezes out of him, and Keith nods and steps aside so they can sit on the couch.

Lance scrambles for a few moments. He trips on Keith’s boots walking towards the couch, bangs his hip against the sharp corner of the dining table a second later, and scrapes his hand on Keith’s sandpaper board for his charcoal blenders. He’s a mess of faults and accidents, cradling his hip with a palm– but he keeps all his attention on Keith. An unwavering pillar of support, and Keith wonders briefly why he spent so much time away from it– until he realizes, yes, he needed this. He needed to think.

“I’m...not happy,” Keith begins, shushing Lance when he tries to let a flurry of apologies escape him. “I’m not happy because you’ve obviously been lying to me. You’ve painted your life as this whole picturesque sort of existence, and like, while I get that you want to hide things, I’ve given you _all_ of me. I’ve told you about my parents abandoning me, and I’ve told you about that lady who’d done all that shit sexual abuse crap, I’ve told you about my mommy and my daddy issues and what the fuck ever, Lance, but I don’t have anything from you. Fuck, it feels like I barely know you! I know you at the core, and I know what kind of person you are but I want to know why, and what made you like this, and I just– I want to know. I want you to stop playing this stupid overconfident front and talk to me like you _fucking mean it.”_

Lance breathes. His hands rub over his face and he throws off his coat and his shoes and tucks his knees into his chest, chin grazing against the cotton fabric stretched tight over his legs. For once in the time he’s known him, Lance looks small. Meek and meager and merely a tiny ball of regrets and rippling feelings tugging his chest every which way, it’s a different look for him. One that holds no secrets.

“My dad died four years ago,” he begins, sinking against the plush cushions. “Official report conducted by a friend of ours down in the LAPD states, on the record, that he was killed while on a hunting trip. Nothing more, nothing less– the only reason it says that is because of the weird circumstances around his death. For one, someone leaked a bunch of photos of his body. All mangled and chewed up and shot through the head with a pretty fucked .950 round. Photos were just floating everywhere, of my dad’s dead body in the middle of the woods and it caused a lot of suspicion.”

Keith remembers this. He remembers watching the news diligently, reading article after article and pouring himself over the gruesome circumstances of a “hunting trip gone wrong.” Remembers seeing Lance get on stand, little care for the man stating past a hoarse throat and blubbering tears that his father has simply been attacked, and died in the woods. Remembers Shiro asking him to turn off the TV. Remembers thinking this shit was some kind of conspiracy. He remembers.

“So I went public. I told them it was really just an accident, then shit started coming out about a cover-up, and I– I just couldn’t take it. I went under. I stopped talking to my family for a year, started snorting coke every other hour and let myself go. It was real, real bad Keith– but it wasn’t the media that pissed me off. It was the actuality of the situation, which digs so much deeper than you’d ever expect it to– past authorities, past government and swept up in this weird mythological turf war that’s been burning for centuries now.

“You know the Altea mall, right? It’s like, a pretty chill place, and is generally busy but doesn’t have too many problems. My pack owns that shit, dude– that’s the only reason Plaxum can hold up wares like human fingers and fish-head necklaces without the management giving her shit. Our pack are Alteans, real old and real aware of the reality of our life. A lot of those “weird” deaths people insist are coverups by the government are really cover-ups, but they’re for us. We all die in weird ways. Spontaneous combustion? Easy. Phoenixes who keep their human forms for too long and just exploded. Unknown poisons are probably that fuckin’ Jormungandr or whatever the fuck ruining shit as per usual. A lot of things can be explained by us, because we’re this sort of all seeing eye on this half of the spectrum. Then there’s Lotor’s side, and that’s...that’s where shit gets a little fucked. 

“See, there’s been this long going feud between our side, the Alteans, and Lotor’s side of the spectrum: the Galra. We have morals over here. We don’t just kill any humans we see, we don’t just eat any humans we see, we don’t just seduce any human we see. Whatever the fuck your poison is that you need to survive, you do it with style. Ethics. It’s all about consent if it’s sex, it’s all about eating the right people– like me. I eat shitheads. The Galra don’t give a shit– they murder and they kill innocent families, they rape and pillage and wipe entire cities off the map if they so please. The whole shit falls back a literal millennia, when we were barely coherent and the Galra killed one of our own. So from there, it’s been a battle of ethics. We’ve tried being diplomatic, tried mending the rift and trying to bring people to us– and it worked. It worked, until Zarkon came into the picture.

“A lot of mythos coincides in our line of work. There’s demigods and satyrs and the Lochness monster and werewolves and vampires and all sorts of shit, and we all live in this harmony that’s taken a long time to achieve. Zarkon’s this...god, I can’t even describe him. My dad killed him before he could really upheave everything we worked for, but he was this sort of hybrid monster. He’d started like my dad. Pure werewolf, ‘til he started wanting more and more _power._ So he was injecting himself full of blood, poison, spending hours and days and fucking years trying to “perfect himself” or some shit. Anyways– long story short, giant upheaval of the power on both sides, and now we were stuck in this shitty cycle of constant fighting. Lotor is Zarkon’s son, and. Hm.”

Lance pauses, and Keith presses a tentative hand against his shoulder. Settles it at the junction between his neck and clavicle. He sighs, soft, and curls his fingers over Keith’s. Something about it brings a relief.

“Lotor kind of killed my dad. Well, he killed my dad, and– and two of my brothers, and he killed Hunk’s dad and his uncle and...he killed a lot of people we loved, Keith. He’s the product after all of Zarkon’s weird self-mutations, and he just grew up so differently from the rest of us. He was always on edge, always angry and always fascinated with outright murder, and he was the one that took over after his dad died. One day, we’re all every which way. My dad’s having a night out with his friends, doin’ monster shit like scaring locals and spreading rumors about each other. They– I don’t remember what happened. Some point, some reason, they head out to the woods to hunt bunnies or some fuckery like that. From what I heard from my dad’s friend, Ulaz, was that they felt like they were being followed. So they pretended to be joking around, but I guess they got a little too into it. One moment they’re chilling, and the next, they’re jumped by a shit ton of the Galra’s lackeys. There was only about ten of them, including my dad, and there was so many of those fucking Galra. They get a window for one of them to get out, and they send Ulaz because he’s fast and– and he runs off to get help. When he comes back, they’re gutted and flayed and look like they’ve been ripped apart and...yeah. 

“Now we come back to here, and Lotor’s crashing my parties after hearing from what I recently figured out was a shitheaded leaking stuff to Lotor to assimilate into the Galra. Then he starts threatening me again, and my family, and you– and I’ve just been so fucking scared, Keith. I didn’t want what happened to my dad and those people he killed to happen to you, so I just kept hiding it and hiding you and trying to keep you away from all that. I just. I love you too much to risk letting you get killed, even if it means keeping you away like this.”

So, this is kind of a lot to take in. There’s a hurricane of trainwreck thoughts crashing every which way in his brain. It’s hard to understand that he’s still in danger of being killed over stupid family feuds, and realizes that Lance has got good reason to hide his whole tragic past thing. While everything feels a little skewed, a little off– and he knows, for a fact that something will happen eventually and he cannot stop it, he feels better. He doesn’t feel so heavy anymore, not so much worried anymore ‘cause he’s got ten million other things to worry about that just don’t feel as bad as not being able to trust Lance. Keith pulls on his own fingers, shoulders pulling tense and relaxing, and he can’t help the huff of a laugh pushing out of him.

“Oh, god,” Keith says, leaning against the arm of the couch and gripping his fingers into his stomach trying to prevent the guffaw working its way out of him. “We’re literally so _fucked,_ aren’t we?”

Lance laughs. Then they both just– laugh, and keep laughing about how unfortunate their entire situation is because things are never easy when you’re a drug dealer turned stoner turned bartender dating a werewolf, and said werewolf is a regular Cuban boy trying to protect his family. The whole premise is fucking insane, that he’s dating a real-ass werewolf and somehow has gotten caught up in a dangerous game of Family Feud where the winner gets to reign supreme victory and power over the mythological creature world. Also, one side seems to be a fucked up cocktail of cannibals, family killers and hybrid monsters, so, like, cool. Cool, cool, cool, no doubt, no doubt.

Anyways, after a few minutes of laughing and goofing off with each other, they’re totally toppling, Lance’s back first on the weak legs of his living room table. It’s littered with beer cans and stray ecstasy tabs, all of which scatter on Lance and the floor when they fall on and break said weak table legs. It is very painful, but they laugh about it anyways and then once again they’re sliding all on top of each other teeth gnashing tongues heavy on cheeks and Lance’s dick totally all up on Keith’s thighs. They make up for those days of lost time, with dumb jokes and edibles and blowjobs, so it’s a nice time. Nice time for now, at least.

– 

Mmm, okay. Two weeks post the fateful Incident™– not really just the first serious communication session they had– and things are going not well. Thoughts for today: getting kidnapped by your boyfriend’s evil, hybrid baby cannibal rival so he can taunt your boyfriend and try to make him hand over the metaphorical throne to him is pretty awful. 

How it happens is pretty shitty, too, ‘cause he’s making his bi-weekly trip to the thrift store for some jeans. Rich boyfriend or not, Keith is very independent and happens to like the comfort of old vintage jeans ten times more than any pairs of spandex-denim mass produced jeans can give. So he’s down at Goodwill, talking to Lance on the phone while his very special boy is complaining about the hardships of shaving his balls.

“Seriously, Peach,” he grumbles, awkward shuffling heard over the phone. “I’ve got one leg propped up on my little soap holder and the other is on the edge of the bathtub, and I got my dick in one hand and a razor in the other. It’d be _waaay_ easier if you came over and helped me out. Like. Put my dick in your hand, or your mouth I mean whichever, and that would give me so much more wiggle room.”

“That’s an indirect way of saying you’re horny and want me over now, right,” Keith mumbles, shrugging when a grandmother across the denim section gives him a dirty look. “Lance, I’m buying pants. You can cram whatever you want down my throat when I have appropriate jeans for my very appropriate job that I am talking about in this _very not appropriate place_ to converse about me sucking dick.”

“Ahh, that made my heart skip a beat. Anyways, I gotta hang up on you. Call me when you get home, okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll probably be over at around 2-ish, so I’ll just grab some stuff at my place to spend the weekend or somethin’.”

“Gotcha. I love youuuuu, Peach.”

“I love you too, Wolfy. I’ll call you in fifteen when I’m at my place, yeah?”

Lance hangs up and Keith continues his jean rifling in peace. Mostly. At one point or another, Keith’s peeking over the edge of the racks when a pair of eyes meet his own. They are frosty yellow in color, and he’s gotta do a double take when they turn a gray-blue. A creeping crawling scuttles up his neck and he swallows thick, wrangling his things together and heading to the registers. That– that same guy, with the freaky color-changing eyes follows him to the registers and the cashier can’t seem to understand the look of panic on his face. So he starts to dial Lance’s number, and the phone starts to ring when a hand settles itself on his shoulder.

Fucking _Lotor._ He’s all grins and ugly teeth and pallid skin when he greets the cashier, but the clerk’s got not a single care in the world. Just keeps checking them out, just keeps bagging and Lotor’s paying for his things and then he’s being pushed out the doors. Those teeth just keep smiling down at him, and he’s got a split of a headache and an eyeful of gnarled claws and steely blue veins and just scent, scent, so much fucking rotting decay flooding his nostrils and killing him, slow.

When they make it to the car, he’s got an overdraft of bile, venom, all curling in his throat and he’s keeled over in the back seat and hurls. It’s a blaring thought in his head, screaming and pulsating and thrumming every which way in his brain and he hurts so fucking bad. 

“What– what the _fuck_ do you want from mmm _mee,”_ he gurgles out, palms scrubbing at his gross lips and fingers ripping at the leather of the car. His hands seize and his toes curl tight into his feet and he keeps hurting and hurting worse and worse and when there’s no more puke, he’s drooling a pool into the seats. It’s like his brain stopped, but he can hear everything and that stupid gross scent has diffused itself in every pore of his body. Lotor speaks, and it is a grating pain in his ears and his eyes start to roll back, and he feels black, black, black sink its way into his vision.

“I want to see those fucking Alteans _ruined.”_

Just like that, he is empty.

– 

Ahh, ahh. Lance is a man of true prowess and esteem, a man born in richness, raised in politeness, and living in giving prosperity. He loves his life, and his friends, and most of all– he loves Keith. Keith, a shining ray of sun and pretty eyes and velvet skin and a heart of fool’s gold. He says fool’s gold, because inherently neither of them are “good people” ‘cause Keith smokes weed every two hours and trips on shrooms every two days, and Lance eats people. Okay, the ratio is definitely not the same, but you get the point. Fool’s gold, some metaphor about Keith’s dick and raven hair, yadda, yadda, he loves Keith.

So, when he’s already on edge when someone wants to kill his very best boyfriend ever, and best friend and lover and kind of his entire universe, and they decide to go and kidnap him while Keith’s phone has dialed his own number, it’s kind of absolute _shit._ He remembers being on the other line, deathly silent so as to not alarm his fucking horrible arch rival Lotor. And see, this all feels so horribly not okay or anything, and like it shouldn’t be happening– but it is, it’s very much happening, and he’ll have to remind himself to get himself a new phone because his hand curled so fucking violent tight around his current/old one that it’s shattered into millions of tiny pieces in his hand.

Mm, yeah, lots of feelings today. Those feelings amplify when he’s breaking into Keith’s house, trying to get a tag on his scent and taking as much stupid werewolf endorphins that should not be as readily available as they are, but that’s okay. See, because these endorphins help amplify some of those wolfish tendencies he suppresses voluntarily, and now he feels like he can smell everything in this entire fucking country. He keeps a tight fist around Keith’s favorite sweater, a giant blue hoodie with lots of wear and tear that is literally soaking in Keith, Keith, Keith. Without a second thought of his surroundings, he’s all wolf from the waist down and he’s lucky no one’s looking, when he swings onto the roofs and thunders out to find Keith. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll get to rip out Lotor’s neck the minute he sees him.

Yeah, that’d be nice.

– 

Keith hates being kidnapped! It’s official. He’s been down here for a solid hour and a half, and he’s really starting to sweat up a storm. They haven’t done anything, other than hear Lotor’s stupid sob story which he doesn’t give half a shit about. He wants to go home, and he’s really trying to will Lance to get the fuck over here already. This is some stupid scenario, honestly, and he’s not entirely sure what the point is. 

There really _is_ no point, though. Even if Lotor hates his guts, that doesn’t give him a right nor a real reason to kidnap Keith. He’d be better off trying to get Lance’s little nephews or something, ‘cause they’ve got more importance to him that one boyfriend does. Like, he knows he shouldn’t think of it like that because Lance loves him, he is very aware– but he just can’t help but think he’s not an absolute priority. He’s maybe the fifth on the pseudo-list of Things That Are Important To Lance. Maybe he’s underestimating it a little, but again, causing a mythological civil war because someone killed your human boyfriend seems a little far-fetched.

Again, he’s not underestimating Lance. But Lotor’s been telling him how absolutely useless he is to the whole creature feature movement, how he’s got nothing to bring the table other than his krav maga shit that pale in comparison to werewolves literally eating the heads of other people without lifting a finger. He’s pretty certain that Lance could enchant him into cutting out his own liver and serving it on a platter, he’s that charming. 

Back to the whole kidnapping situation.

He’s in some weird storage shed, that smells familiarly like frog legs and pond water. He’d guess he’s somewhere swampy, like a marsh or something of that matter. Lotor and a few other burly looking ladies surround him, but he’s got an inkling of a notion that they’re not too crazy about this idea. A pretty shape-shifter by the name of Ezor has been very adamant in her position not to get further deep into Lance’s bad side, even if one of them looks like they look like they could pop open Keith’s head with their thumb and index finger. 

She’s been trying to tell him about “the others”. Which is incredibly vague, but he assumes it’s apart of the pileup of monsters that Lance has inevitably killed because he just rolls that way. Keith’s seen him brutalize a Galran vampire who tried to say one little thing about Keith and whores, it’s just– it’s what he does. He doesn’t care, because he himself beat the shit out of his room-mate for pretending he didn’t steal a bag of roofies Keith meant to deal that weekend. Not the same scale, but– you know! It’s just, they– they’re both big hotheads who like fist-fighting and being dirty (not in that way!) and bloody and it’s their lifestyle, okay! It’s a fucked up lifestyle, which he is very aware of after a three hour lecture about his character. Right now, the specific topic is his weird fucking life.

Lotor tells him he’s fucked up. He’s about fifteen minutes into telling Keith how weird he smells, how not normal he is, how much he’s a perfect match for Lance because they’re both fucking horrible.

“I mean, seriously,” Lotor drawls around stank-ass breath and ugly teeth, “I can’t understand why he’s so drawn to you, but he is, and for some reason I cannot explain you two are so disgustingly made for one another! Horrible, really, because you both are shitstains of this earth and I cannot fathom to understand why you can ever, ever–”

_Vanilla._

Okay, _maybe_ he very horribly underestimated how much Lance cares about him. Like an explosion of scents and every other nice thing he can think of, his very wonderful boyfriend comes barrelling in. The scent is teeming with this guttural rage, and the low rumblings in the pit of Lance’s stomach are far from happy. He’s frothing at the mouth, fingers flexing hard and angry and his eyes are so terrifyingly wide, white, pupils the size of needles. The guards are highly alarmed, backing up slightly and trying to regain their bearings. The magnitude of the scent– something about it just doesn’t click right, like it’s not registering to him. He’s standing his ground, Keith hasn’t puked or anything but it’s so very obviously burning holes into the other’s ears. He has little time to consider this, because Lance doesn’t give Lotor that chance to speak before he’s lunging towards him, low on his haunches and skin splitting red, red.

He’s all wolf now.

As easily as he launches forward, muzzle wide and teeth gleaming, Lotor is able to grab his sides and swing him to the walls of the shed. Lance crashes hard into the corner of a table, wood crushing under his weight. He snorts weird, paws scrabbling up against the floorboards before he’s running back to Lotor. Then it’s just a pure fight– Lotor’s skin tears up and splatters blood everywhere, and he’s this hybrid of slimy scales and fur at his neck and teeth splintering out of his mouth and shredding his lips. He’s a purple in color, gross and too exposed and his eyes seem to multiply– oh, no, they did. He’s got six eyes and no more lips because he fucking tore them up, and he’s got a lizard tail and gross gnarly feet and Keith wants to puke at the sight. His lackeys seem to take this as a cue, because they hightail it out of the area– Keith is still chained to the fucking wall! – and then it’s a battle.

They’re throwing each other every which way, claws digging into organs and ripping out patches of skin and blossoming bruises on leathered faces. It’s every bit of danger it feels like, and Keith tries tugging at the wall to save himself. He’s so fucking scared, okay! These two things are just duking it out over a turf war, and there’s nothing in the air except heaving growls and thrumming snarls and nails dug tight into necks. Keith is scrabbling at this point, and maybe the chain jangled too loud– something, something happened and he’s grabbed Lotor’s attention. The smile on his face is cruel, marred by teeth and split lips and ripping jaws and haggard strands of hair hanging from his scalp. He looks at Keith with those beady fucking eyes, and without a moment’s notice, has got a hand reaching for a table.

Silver, silver, silver, silver bullets on the table, gleaming heavy against the jet black details of the pistol it lay beside. There’s bullets inside already, that is heavily evident when Lotor releases the safety and presses it, right into Lance’s shoulder. That smile curls. Keith’s blood boils.

A growl. He presses the trigger, and all hell breaks loose.

– 

If he were to explain it, it was a feeling.

Keith knows that his feelings are a little weird sometimes. He feels too hard and too fast. But this, this four car pileup with dancing phoenixes settling in the pit of his stomach feels so wildly different. It is not an explosion of emotion, it is a gradual build up of panic and smoke signals and bombs shooting off like dominoes. He’s felt this for a long, long while, always simmering with keen control and waiting for the right moment to let it all go. When he sees the bullet lodged into Lance’s shoulder, it’s after a moment of clarification that he is not as human as he seems. When he sees fur shedding, face shifting and the tiny tinny voice of “Keith,” desperate and wanting and waiting– that’s when it bubbles over. Hot oil sparking off french fries, until the pot explodes and sends itself sailing.

The closest he's ever gotten to this was the first time his foster mother touched his knee in a way that was not innocent. He felt that deep pit in his stomach, that crawling and clawing and crying trying to rip itself out of his throat. It was a burning, a kind of ache that needed to be released like the snaps of belts cracking on the backs of his legs he'd felt more often than he should have. Things had never come easy, and the day that he felt that hand curled on his knee and the crinkles of a faux smile edging at her lips, he desperately wanted to reach over and tear her apart from the inside out. He was the embodiment of frothing anger, and had it gone on any longer than the few seconds it did- god, he's not sure what he would've done. 

Maimed her.

Killed her.

Nothing ever hurts when it comes to those flares of anger spiking out his stomach, because everything is numb, numb, _painless._

It doesn’t hurt when his teeth grow big and shiny. It doesn’t hurt when his knees break and snap and crack into place, crunching and tissue tearing loud. It doesn’t hurt when hairs sprout from his arms, covering every which way, and it doesn’t hurt when his fingernails embed themselves into his nail beds and thicken into shark teeth points. None of it hurts at all, because it feels so desperately natural, and everything feels easier.

It’s a bit of a blur. He rips the chains off the wall, snarling and frothing at the already torn-down Lotor, who’s got wide eyes and stares out between Keith’s boyfriend and Keith himself, because he realizes he’s done fucked up and there was always something so animal about Keith. Nothing left for him to really think or realize, especially when Keith surges forward, howling and growling and rumbling just like Lance.

And just like Lance, he wrenches his arm back in a moment of surprise, claws flexed, angry. He shoots it forward, and just like Lance, tears the son of a bitch’s heart right out of his fucking chest.

Lotor stands, frozen and rigid as his eyes wander to the pulsating, blue heart in Keith’s hands. It’s cold and slimy, unpleasant to the touch and sticking wet fur to his palms. Keith is entirely conscious of it, heaving breaths sniffing and sniffing. He is so violently repulsed by the scent, and while he’s got a nose that seems to smell those same human hearts from miles away– nothing about this one is good. It is horrible, bad, reeks of anger and sadness and he is in no way regretful of his decisions. With his furred palm, violet eyes slit thin and strikes, lightning strikes of piercing blues and yellows and reds forming a kaleidescope of werewolf eyes, he stares down at the heart. With one final movement, he squeezes it in his hand, hard. Blood splatters across his face, chest, and Lotor’s knees wobble. 

He falls. Keith watches blue blood drip between fingertips, watches palms shift fur to skin and limbs tear back into place. A bang is heard from the front door, and he catches sight of orange mustaches and white curly locks before he falls, buckling into Lance.

Keith guesses transforming into a werewolf is harder than it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. im sorry the fight is kinda rushed but like, i wanted to emulate how fast and fuckin weird it was and yeA whatever
> 
> 2\. HAH


	5. Quarter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey.
> 
> been a while.
> 
> i'll explain at the end. for now, hope you enjoy.

Step 5: Get dumped, then figure shit out. Live happily ever after.

Let’s get something straight here. No, Keith did _not_ know he was a werewolf. Keith has lived his entire life without an appetite for human hearts, so it’s not like he had any tell tale signs to scream “wolf!” in his daily life. He doesn’t have freaky nails, or pointed ears, or giant teeth or unhinging jaws– actually, he takes that one back. It’s a talent! A _sexual_ talent. Off-topic, really, but just to reiterate: Keith has never shown any form of animalistic tendencies unless he’s got a dirty alleyway, Lance, and minimal clothing in broad daylight. Even then, the most he’s getting out is a growl or two; still, again, not an animal. 

Which is why this whole stupid fucking ordeal sucks so bad, ‘cause he loves Lance with all his heart and would never, _ever_ lie to him, but it’s kind of hard to convince said boyfriend this when he’s been shot by a silver bullet and watched his boyfriend turn into a werewolf for the first time. Obviously, Lance believes otherwise.

He knows Lance believes otherwise, ‘cause the moment he wakes up from a rather intensive session of wolf surgery in the hospital-basement fusion of Allura’s literal four story mansion. It’s fucking insane– okay, off topic, _again._ Lance believes otherwise because he sets his eyes on Keith and they turn a cold, cold blue, flicking away and Keith can’t help the whine that gurgles out of him.

“Lance…”

“Keith,” he wheezes, and there’s more malice than he’s expecting. He’s not sure why, because it’s not his fault he didn’t know he was a werewolf, and also– how is that supposed to be a bad thing?! It’s not like he’s played this whole betrayal thing with Lance, he isn’t Galra— like, maybe glowy yellow-shifting eyes _might_ be weird, but— okay! okay! He might have somewhat of a point!

“No. _No._ We are not doing this,” Keith begins, consolations leaking out of him and annoyance bubbling in his belly. “We are not going to act like I’ve just betrayed your entire fucking bloodline because I didn’t know there was some fucked up shit going on with me. You do _not_ get to act like you’re the only one in shock by this!”

“Bull fucking _shit,_ Keith. There’s no fucking way in hell you’ve gone your entire life never experiencing any signs of wolfing out. I can’t go a fucking week without thinking about tearing into a hand as my goddamn dinner. You fucking know, you have known you’ve been like this and you just wanted to make a big idiot out of me for acting like I’m stronger than you.”

“I’m telling you I didn’t know! I’ve never– not fucking ever, not once, have I ever had a thought about eating some other fucking dude’s brain out, Lance! This isn’t me trying to ridicule you for being weak– which, where the fuck did that come from?! You could pop my fucking skull between your fingers if you really tried it!”

Lance sits up in a flurry, frothing at the mouth and eyes swimming with a ferocious shade of cyan, fistfuls of bedsheets shredded in his claws. His eyes are watering, and there’s more pain evident than anger. 

“You killed Lotor, and I never could. Not even when my dad died.”

Keith blinks, and sort of mulls over that and lets his heart clench kind of painfully and it makes a bit of sense. A part of him wants to believe Lance is projecting his anger over being unable to avenge his father; the other part blames himself for the whole situation. Yet he has to know, too, that he can’t blame himself! Keith did not know, honestly, truly about any of this. Fuck, he didn’t realize supernatural fucks like Lotor _existed_ til he got with Lance! So, excuse him for his potential wariness and his adamancy to agree and roll over for Lance when it’s barely his fault. ‘cause shit like that causes miscommunications, and he’s not even sure where he stands right now. Physically, maybe; he’s at Lance’s bedside, who’s got a bandage spread across the entirety of his torso and a resigned look on his face. 

“I think you should leave,” Lance breathes after a while, shaky, fists clenching into white sheets. 

So that’s where he stands, it seems.

“Okay,” Keith mutters. It’s an empty statement, and it carries a lot more weight than he feels it should. “...Bye, Lance.”

His heart aches when Lance rolls over pointedly, strings holding them breaking and Keith takes a longing look at the waves of brown hair before he walks out.

–

It takes him a solid two weeks to get over the argument, and coincidentally, that’s enough time for him to research the nonsensical fuckery that is his heritage. Right now, he’s hunched over his notebook in tattered sweatpants and a sorry excuse for a sweater. His hair is frizzy, halfheartedly tugged into a ponytail and there’s rings under his eyes and leftover coke splattered on his nostrils. He’s the perfect picture of someone post-break up, cartons of cookie dough ice cream sitting around his desk and bottles of Kinky Blue vodka stacked like bricks on the ground. Keith has been crying non-stop for the past two days, snot staining his research papers but it’s fine. Give him a little time– he kind of broke up with the first guy he could say he loved.

On the paper is a shape similar to a factoring tree. At the top is him in his lonesome, no siblings to his knowledge. Under him are a mother and a father, one of which– with a little help from Pidge– he knows is somewhere alive back in Korea and doing alright for herself. He can’t be angry at her, because he doesn’t know the circumstances of why she had to leave. It’s all a blur, really. But so far, he can’t find anything indicative of being a supernatural creature. He’s been able to tell lately, strange enough; after effects of turning, he supposes. But there’s nothing. No teeth, no marks, no ears, nothing.

His father, on the other hand, died. So, cool, that’s okay.

Now, he gets to the complicated part– which is finding the man who took care of him for the six years of his life before he was adopted. The only truly good foster parents he ever had, who somehow had a strange connection to his parents that he never wanted to mention. On a separate sheet is a stockpiled list of facts of his last known locations, his jobs, whatever information he could get his grimy little hands on. So far, he knows the man is named Thace or some weird shit like that. It only took him a few minutes to clock the guy as a weresomethin’, because one photo very prominently showcased the nails he’d spent the last six months obsessing over (on Lance, he has to note. He isn't stalking his foster parents).

He knows his last location, as of a month ago somewhere in the pits of Houston with a factory job and a husband. No relatives to speak of, no other ties that were indicative of his past. Now the job lies in his attempt to contact this guy, and it’s no easy feat. He’s essentially off the social grid, save for a measly Facebook profile that only announces his marriage.

Keith is very stuck. He closes the book and rubs between his eyes, crawling into his nasty bed and sinking his face into the pillows. He misses Lance a lot, honestly; he was this very constant presence in his life that didn’t allow him to spiral into his months of manic depressive episodes and addictions and kept him afloat. Rightfully so– without him, Keith’s like this sorrowful sloth with a death wish because he’s so grossly dependent on the guy ‘cause he’s clingy, and touch starved, and aching for someone to fuckin’ love him again because this shit sucks. 

His eyes slide closed into a nap, and he only wakes up hours later to Shiro’s soft footsteps, setting a burnt grilled cheese on his bedside and patting his head tenderly. “Hey kiddo,” he smiles, somber and pulling at his eyes. “You should probably eat sometime. Pidge said she’s worried about you...she’s downstairs, too, if you wanna say hi.”

Keith shrugs, but Pidge is one of the three people he’s able to interact with right now, so he pulls his ass out of bed and even bothers to change his underwear for her, and drags himself to say hello. She greets him with a soft smile, full of pity yet ablaze with something he can’t pinpoint. 

“Your face makes me want to go kick Lance in the balls.”

“Don’t. It’s not his fault.” Keith makes his way to the couch, curling himself into Pidge’s side and letting out a lengthy sigh. “It still really, _really_ sucks though. I feel like I got punched in the goddamn heart or something.”

“You really loved him, huh?” Shiro voices from the hallway entrance, thumbing at the frays of his sleeves. “I haven’t seen you this broken up about anything since Mom and Dad moved us from Anaheim.”

“Weird thing is, Shiro, I actually did. I don’t think I’ve like...ever loved _anyone._ I guess I went in thinking, okay, this is gonna be a little thing for a month or so then we’ll split. But it wasn’t– it wasn’t, at all, and now I’m alone trying to figure out this transformation shit and I...I don’t know. It fucking sucks.”

Pidge nods along thoughtfully, lacing her fingers through his hair. His head sinks to her lap, tracing his fingers on the sewed edge of her sweatpants, head swirling. He’s real tired, that he is.

“Not to intrude on your sentiment right now, but I found that one guy you were looking for. At least, I think I did.”

That sure brings him out of his self-loathing. Keith’s head snaps up, staring her dead in the eye and tugging out her laptop in one hand, other one squishing her cheeks. “You’re serio– why didn’t you lead with that!”

“You didn’t give me a chance,” is what he thinks she mumbles out, but her cheeks are squished together like marshmallows and she’s having some difficulties getting words out. 

No matter. She’s pulling up their ongoing Google™ document where they feed each other pertinent information about their research, and he spots an address the moment she hits the sixth page of the document. He snatches it from her hands; instead of Houston, it's some little rinky dink town in Texas with a population of three hundred and at the edges of the border. He’s only skimming it for a few moments when Shiro comes in, juice box in hand and Svedka in the other, and Keith looks up with a fire set ablaze in his eyes. 

“Pack your shit,” he wheezes, hands trembling around the laptop. “We’re going to Texas.”

Shiro looks at the laptop, at Pidge, at the bottle in his hand. Promptly unscrews it, and takes a loooooooooooooooong swig. “Call Matt.”

Keith obliges.

– 

Lance looks at his phone, staring at the picture pulled up on it. It’s Keith, with a cucumber– like a whole ass fucking cucumber– stuffed in his mouth that Lance meant to use for his eyes. He’s already eaten half of the damn thing, and there’s this expression of guilt, and the photo is so fucking cute. Like catching a kid with his little hands in the metaphorical cucumber jar, Keith’s eyes are wide and his ears are beet red and Lance feels his heart squeeze in turmoil.

“I don’t know why you keep crying about him when you’re the one that broke up with him,” Hunk comments offhandedly, having sat at his bedside for the past three hours and watching him scroll through his substantial album of Keith pictures. “I kind of think you’re an idiot if you’re this upset over it.”

“You’re supposed to be _comforting me,”_ Lance moans, smacking his lips on the next photo, where Keith is lying across the coffee table with Jell-O in one hand and a blunt in the other. He’s in his stupidly cute Transformers boxers, a goofy grin on his face. One would think it was for Lance; alas, it was for none other than Adam Sandler in _Happy Gilmore._ “You’re so mean. This isn’t how a friend should treat his dying friend.”

“One, you’re not dying,” Hunk says, snatching the phone from his hands. Lance screeches in sorrow, grasping for the damn thing. “Two, I don’t pity you at all. It’s obvious you’re head over heels for the guy, so I don’t know why you couldn’t be a big boy and put on your big boy pants and had a damn big boy conversation before you decided to cut him out of your life.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“But it really is!” Hunk squeezes his friend’s face in his giant palms, exasperation evident. “You think Shay and I are picture perfect? Even _we_ argue sometimes. It sucks, sure, but we truck through it for the long haul. I know it makes you nervous to talk about your feelings like this, but you have to. I don’t think you even know why you’re angry at Keith. You’re just projecting about the fact that you didn’t get a hit on Lotor first– don’t give me that look, you know I’m right.”

“I know you are, I just don’t want to accept it. Plus, Keith walked out so easy, there’s no way that he’s bent over this whole thing.”

“You didn’t give him a chance to defend himself, man! Poor guy tried to reason with you and you just let other factors dictate your relationship. I thought you said you’d never let supernatural affairs get in the way of your love life.”

“They didn’t get in the way–”

“But they _did._ Everything you did with Keith, you subconsciously controlled around with that stupid alpha wolf shit you pull. So _what_ if he’s part werewolf or whatever the fuck? He’s still Keith, and from what I know, he’s more honest than your _mother._ You seriously need to get that he’s not just gonna up and start hunting better than you in this internal macho contest you have with yourself. You’ve seen him when you eat human around him, he pulls that face and he wonders how you do it and that makes me wonder what the hell you’re thinking that he’s hiding all of this. I am one hundred and ten percent certain Keith literally had no fucking idea he was wolf, Lance.”

(Hunk is trying to wrap his head around the whole situation too, honestly. He just finds it easier to understand when he’s pounding it into Lance’s thick numbskull ass brain.)

“I know that,” Lance says, thumbs digging into the sheets of his bed. “I just...I don’t get it. I’ve never met a half breed, but shouldn’t there be some semblance of were-creature in him? He couldn’t have gone his entire life without howling or eating a hand or some shit.”

“Definitely not!”

Disembodied voice that announces that stands at his doorway, tall and regal with fanciful mustache as glorious as ever. It’s Coran, in high spirits with a neat little manilla package tucked under his arm. He strides right in, ruffling Hunk’s hair and patting Lance’s shoulder. “How are you, my boy?”

“Could be doing better.”

“He’s been crying about Keith all day,” Hunk mutters, earning a pout from his friend. “Then getting mad at me for saying he’s dumb about breaking up with the guy. Real productive day, today.”

“Sure sounds like it,” Coran chuckles, brows upturned in sympathy. “I might have something to bring up your spirits– maybe incite a little bit of reconciliation between you boys, eh?”

“What do you mean by that?” Lance sits up, inquisitive expression plastered on his face. Coran twirls his mustache.

“Allura and I went ahead and took a blood sample of your boy,” Coran begins, sitting cross-legged at the desk in his bedroom. He begins thumbing through the folder, pulling out various documentation– Jesus, were those Keith’s _medical records?–_ and finally, bestowing a list of something medical. Phlebotomy, a part of Lance’s brain voices, but is immensely overpowered by the other half telling him about some pertinent Keith info. “It’s quite interesting! He had some very extensive medical issues as a child, like asthma and recurrent pneumonia and sporadic cases of bronchitis and cardiac related difficulties– then they just up and vanished when he hit puberty! He’s the near perfect image of health now, aside from those pesky infections we all get. Aside from his– might I add, rather extensive list of medications– he’s stayed near the same since he hit his eighteenth birthday. No growth spurts, nothing–“

“Coran, I love you, but please get to the point.”

“Right, right,” Coran rambles on for a second longer, before pulling another sheet out of the folder. “Well, anyways, I ran some generally extensive tests on his blood, lots of comparative tests to get a hold of his lineage. He’s not entirely human, alright, but here’s the thing...Quite interesting, too!”

_”Coraaaaan.”_

“Yes, yes, all good things come in good time, Lance! So, the tests…”

–

Texas is a shithole. Not really, but the extensive drive there from California to Quemado, Texas was the worst thing he’d ever experienced in his life. It was hot all the way through, stuffy in the car chock full of equally as hot and sweaty people. Shiro insisted on his personal roadtrip playlist, and to listen to “Sweet Dreams” by the Eurythmics– while pleasant at first– was not as fun on the 65th replay of it. Nevertheless, they get to Quemado in high spirits and with gross sticky skin, and here he is. Standing in front of a shabby looking shack, a part of his brain supplies memories of times here. Very basic memories and obvious strain to get to them, but they’re there; Keith kicking around a soccer ball with a tall, lanky man. Keith playing patty cake with who he assumes is Thace. Keith and the tall man and Thace in front of the house, greeting Shiro’s parents warmly.

“I remember this place,” Shiro remarks, running his hand along the beams of the house. “We picked you up from here. You were missing four of your teeth and kept shaking my hand.”

“Then I kicked you in the shin when you said I was short,” Keith huffs, taking a tentative step up the porch. 

“Still are,” Shiro mutters, and Keith whirls around to deliver _another_ kick to his shin. 

“Asshole.”

“Bitch.”

“Shitfuck.”

“Mullet.”

“Bald.”

“Fuck off, it’s a haircut! I’m trying something new–”

“Can I help you boys?”

Keith and Shiro stop bickering to greet the man at the door, who has a warm smile on his face. He’s very tall, taller than Lance probably– and he’s got the lines of maturity around his crinkled eyes. Keith is filled with a sense of belonging, a little bit of understanding and gripping happiness in his chest. He’s dumbfounded, honestly. He stares for a moment longer, trying to pry that last bit of information out of his head about the identity of this man until his lips form out a name. “Ulaz?”

The man stops, and squints, squints real hard to look at Keith until his eyes blow wide open and he stumbles forward. Then he smiles all wide and happy and toothy and wraps him in a hug, slamming him into his chest and Keith can’t help but lean in. This was him, he remembers; the guy who took care of Keith when Thace wasn’t back from his job, the moment he first met Keith and pulled a quarter from behind his ear and Keith was so absolutely fascinated with kindness from a foster parent that he never wanted Ulaz to leave. It’s nice, leaves a warmth in his belly and he pulls away to offer a crooked smile. 

“My god, you’ve grown,” Ulaz comments, pinching at his cheeks like an old grandma. “I remember when you barely came up to my elbows. You’re the spitting image of your mother, Keith.”

“Funny you mention that. Is Thace here?” 

“Yes, just inside the parlor. Would you and your friends like to come in?”

“Hell yeah.”

– 

They settle in after Thace has worn himself out of tears, but he can’t let go of Keith’s hand, like a worried father. They share introductions and Matt is more amazed by the sheer magnificence of Thace’s beard that he zones out after he says hello. Thace claps Shiro’s back, sending him tumbling into the corner of a table before scruffing his head. Says something about his stupid haircut, and Keith hides a snort behind Pidge’s shoulder before they all sit and get to business.

“I never wanted to mention it to you, but you’re right.You’re not entirely human, Keith,” Thace states around a sip of lemonade. “But, you’re not really a werewolf either. Not even half– otherwise you’d have some telltale traits.”

“So what am I?”

–

“He’s a _quarter fucking werewolf?”_ Lance spits, flabbergasted. His head is swimming, guilt riding in his throat as he stares down Coran with wonder. “That’s– that’s it? He’s not some weird hybrid or genetically modified or Galra or anything?”

“Right you are! I reckon his grandparents must have bred with someone in a smaller pack and eloped elsewhere. I’d guess his mother, considering from his birth records I pulled,” (holy hell Coran _what are you)_ “he’s quite the image of her! She’s got some parts wolf, I’d be able to tell. It explains a lot about why he’d only ever displayed one sudden burst of wolf. If he ever did it again, well, it’d kill him. Not just that, but I don’t believe his body is physically capable of handling it. He’s too human to be able to handle the transformation again. Rather underwhelming, isn’t it! Allura and I figured out that he’s only in perfect health because of that tiny portion of wolf in him that supplies him a few more luxuries to experience in his day to day life. He may live a little longer than most, or just look like he’s never aged a day in his life. So, while he’s missing all the parts that you have, like your serious amount of body hair and your taste for human delicacy, he’s benefitting from other parts that his human body can handle. If anything, a full moon would only affect his behaviours.”

“Oh my god _that’s why he’d get so horny those nights.”_

“I mean, if you put it that way.”

– 

“So, like, what does it all mean for me?” Keith wonders, trying to wrap his brain around it. He’s less worried about the fact that he can dance all around Lance with this knowledge, a big ol’ “I told you so” song thrumming out his mouth and more preoccupied with this interesting new fact about his very life. “I’m not gonna want to eat humans or anything?”

“If you did, you would’ve done it long ago. As far as it all would concern you, you’ll simply be a lot better looking, healthier, and live around the same amount of time as us. Congrats on the extra fifteen years of life ahead of you past one-hundred.”

“I’m just a...like, a…”

“A quarter werewolf version of a Ken doll?” Pidge snickers, and Thace jabs his finger in her direction approvingly. 

“Precisely!”

“I’m going to fucking kill Lance,” Keith says, with an infliction of justice and a slight insatiable hunger to get those big hands on him again, but mostly to kill him.

– 

A shiver runs up Lance’s spine. He’s never felt this kind of fear since his mother found him skipping out on chores to go to drive-ins with his high school posse, with a failing report card in her fist. “Keith is going to fucking kill me.”

–

A couple weeks afterwards, when Pidge shows up at Lance’s doorstep slapping his cheek and telling him to stop being an idiot and man up and apologize, because her and Hunk became very good friends and told her everything about the aftermath of Coran’s infomercial on everything Keith and was seconded by one of Keith’s foster parents, he’s scrolling on Pinterest. Specifically, looking up elaborate apology ideas that don’t involve a flash mob, when a fist pounds at his door. His heart seizes and a stupid part of his brain tells him his mother has come to kick his ass because she’s finally found out he and Keith aren’t together anymore.

(“If you ever break up with that boy,” she laughs over the rim of her wine glass, after him and Keith reconciled post- Lotor party predicament, “I will come and make you wish you were never _born,_ mijo.”)

He prays a few words of strength and gathers up all his courage to answer, pleading to any god out there to spare him of his mother’s wrath and strike him down now while they can. Apparently, gods like to induce more chaos in his life than he wanted– he opens the door to reveal not a stout woman with piercing blue eyes and a head of hair wilder than any soap opera, but the bloodshot, rumbling ferocity of violet eyes. A head of black hair, whisping past his neck (it’s not a mullet anymore!) and face set cold, yet longing all the same. God, Keith looks so fucking good. He’s grown out his hair and he looks a little thinner, but he’s just as beautiful even when he’s an absolute fucking storm of anger. Even as he shoulders past Lance, limber and with cute little legs and an ass that don’t quit– get it together Lance you’re going to fucking die– he’s just as gorgeous as he was that first fated night at the bar. 

Lance closes the door quietly, trying to calm the sirens in his brains only to have them get louder as Keith starts to pace his floors. He can’t move from the door, gulping nervously and that’s when Keith turns on his heel and comes at him with clenched fists and a scream that could rival even the best of heavy metal vocalists.

“God, you make me so fucking angry!” Keith reels, cornering Lance further into the door. “So fucking livid you make me want to fuck you and kill you and kill _myself_ all at once so I don’t have to be angry anymore! Here’s the thing, Lance, and let’s address this elephant in the room right fucking now– I don’t owe you shit! I shouldn’t have to fucking prove myself that I wasn’t faking loving you just so I could get to your shitheaded arch-nemesis. I shouldn’t have to be a complete human so you can march your crazy alpha shit dick around like it fucking owns the place. I- I shouldn’t have to be completely and utterly loyal to you and never fend for myself when you accuse me of betraying you! I fucking loved you! I loved you more than anything in the fucking world, and I’d do anything to make you happy, and you stab me in the back with this betrayal shit. I never wanted to hurt you, but fuck, Lance, you never let me in! You never let me talk to you or try to explain myself because I couldn’t even call you, ‘cause you’d just hang up! I wasn’t allowed in your neighborhood, I was like a fucking criminal to you– god, I fucking hopped the fence and snuck here just so I could come scream at you because I should! 

"You’re an idiot, Lance Alvarez. A fucking idiot who wouldn’t know someone loved them until it bit him in the ass. Obviously you know the truth now, because Pidge fucking tells me everything, so let’s get this straight. I’m not Galra. I’m not here as a sexy spy trying to infiltrate your family and take down your legacy. I’m not your fucktoy or your little submissive boyfriend who just wants to please you and let you order me around. I’m not your fucking dog, and I’m certainly not human, but that shouldn’t fucking change who I am. I’m Keith– I’m– I’m Keith _motherfucking_ Kogane, my own person and a quarter werewolf and loyal as fuck and that’s _it._ You don’t dictate me. You don’t get to decide when shit is over without talking about it. You don’t get to shut me out like that. You don’t get to fucking cut me off when you know, and I know, and we both fucking know that we were the best things in each other’s _miserable fucking lives.”_

Keith stops. He huffs a long, shaky breath and backs away, and the sirens bleeding in Lance’s brain have long since ended. He feels numb, like he’s been hit with a tsunami of Keith and it’s so overwhelming and so relieving all at once. He has to– he has to do something, when he has this chance to– 

“Whatever. I’m leaving,” Keith mutters, and pushes Lance out of the way to reach for the knob when Lance’s hands take over, wrapping themselves around Keith’s wrists. 

“Do you still?”

His grip loosens. Keith’s hand drops from the knob and lays limp against his hips. Lance’s cheeks feel wet. 

“Do I still what?” Keith bites.

Lance doesn’t let go. He wants so desperately to hold his hand.

“Do you still love me?”

Keith tenses under his grip, shoulders hunching in on themselves. He speaks, with a wavering voice, “I don’t think I could stop, even if I tried.”

Lance surges forward, arms caging him in a brutally tight hug with sobs hiccuping out of his throat and nose inhaling as much Keith as he possibly can. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, I don’t deserve forgiveness and I don’t deserve you but I fucking love you so much, I don’t think I could live without you, you’re fucking everything to me. I want to make you happy. I want to make you so fucking happy for the rest of your life. I love, and I’m sorry for all the pain I caused you.”

It’s the most sincere apology he’s ever made in his life, and Keith responds with fingers curling into those pretty brown waves and moving his face from where it’s burrowed in Keith’s hair, cupping it with his palms while Lance snivels and cries like a lost child. Keith’s eyes burn and single tears fall out of the corners of his eyes. “I can forgive you, and I will, and I...god, I love you, Lance.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Keith tips his forehead into Lance’s. “I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

–

“Pancakes comin’ in hot!”

“How are your titties feeling, Pidge?”

“Jesus Keith, we’re eating breakfast.”

“Shay’s baby is gonna hear everything.”

“Lance, Shay isn’t even past her first trimester yet.”

“Keith, say thank you to Hunk for making your pancakes with blueberries.”

“Why?”

“My titties feel great, by the way. My back kinda hurts though.”

“Okay, as much as I absolutely love my sister, I can’t hear her talking about her boobs anymore. A toast!” Matt cheers at the table, prompting everyone to raise their respective drinks. It’s about eight in the morning, with Lance and Hunk cooking up a storm while the others are gathered around the kitchen island. Lance offers Keith the last of the turkey sausage, pressing a soft kiss to his lips and grinning lazily at him. He’s all scruffy with a five o’clock shadow, since they’d been up late setting up the last box of Keith’s things in the house. Among other things. The sizeable bite on the junction between his neck and shoulder agrees with this statement. 

“I’m proud of all you suckers. You’re all grown up in the past year since the fated Incident, trademarked, and now you’ve all made it big on the Incident’s anniversary! Celebratory breakfast! Shay’s pregnant, Hunk’s gonna be a dad, my lil’ sis has achieved her dream– no, I’m not saying finished your titty tale, shut up I’m making a toast– Shiro’s making his own beer–”

“It’s light and it’s gonna fuck you up hardcore. I call it the Shiro _gone_ -e.”

“Never _fucking_ mind, I hate Shiro, and Lance and Keith have moved in! So cute, aw, I love you guys. Alright, cheers!”

“Actually, uh, wait–” Keith scrambles, just before everyone takes a sip. “I’ve, um, actually got some news.”

“Oh, spill,” Shiro says, in that weird Wendy Williams impression he does, and Keith flicks his forehead.

“I’m, um, actually gonna go back to college. I’m gonna study to be a social worker.”

A raucous chorus arises from the table, whoops and hollers in response. Shay smiles warmly at him, offering advice on the college life and rubs his head lovingly.

“Most importantly, have fun! We’re all so proud of you.”

“I guess since we’re riding this happy train, I’ll go next!” Lance continues, exhaling through his nose with a proud smile on his face, eyebrows waggling. “I _finally_ figured out my proposal plan to Keith!”

 _“Oh no.”_ Hunk whispers, watching Keith’s smile drop dramatically and fork clattering out of his hands. Lance hasn’t even noticed his slip-up.

“Oh, I guess I’m next? Uh, I extended seating space at the bar. It’s a lot nicer,” Shiro comments, then his eyes widen and soon everyone’s staring at Lance and at Keith and at Lance _and_ Keith until he tilts his head, nervous chuckle leaving him.

“Hey, why are you all staring like that? Do I have something on my faaaaaaaaaaaa _aaaaaaaaaaaaooOOOOOOH MY GOD.”_

Lance’s head turns like an owl, swiveling over to Keith who looks mystified by his scrambled eggs and Lance’s heart is beating so fast he’s worried he’s going to go into cardiac arrest, and Keith’s hands are shaking and his lip is quivering when he looks up at his boyfriend of near two years (they’re counting their month long breakup as simply a break, because the both of them pined hardcore until they figured it out) and whispers out, “You were gonna propose?”

“I am so sorry, I know it’s so soon but I can’t help myself and it wasn’t going to be until like, three months from now and I paid money for a parade float but that’s so overwhelming for you so I backed out of it so now there’s an empty float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade that they don’t know what to do with yet, and I put a reservation for this super fancy restaurant but they served fish and I know you don’t like seafood so I’m just going with Hunk and so I tried to figure something out, and I was gonna propose to you at the local fair that’s coming in the fall but I didn’t even realize it would freak you out, oh god–”

“Yes.”

“Huh?” Lance’s eyes are definitely all glazed over and confused by sudden noise.

“I’ll marry you. I don’t even need a big wedding or anything, let’s just– let’s go do it at a court, even, of course I’ll marry you oh my god–”

They make for each other, hands searching wildly into each other’s space and skin and teeth clacking and lips frantic, kissing like rabid animals, and their guests are only broken out of the stupor when Pidge drops her orange juice all over her lap.

“Fuck!”

“Oh my god, they’re getting married!”

“Matt, you bitch, you owe me fifty dollars!”

“Shiro, your brother just got engaged and you’re worried about money!”

“Shut up Matt!”

“Hey, you guys aren’t even eating the food I worked so hard to make you– oh, wow, they’re really going at it. Maybe we should go?”

“Oh, dude, there goes Lance’s shirt. Man, he’s ripped. Wow, okay, that-that’s close to penis territory, let’s go.”

“Bye guys!” Pidge has the absolutely courage– no, _gall_ to kiss Keith’s forehead and Lance’s cheek as she leaves.The two stop to smile at her, and scruff her hair before resuming their actions. They half heartedly wave at the rest, trying to find some other place to have breakfast while the two newly-engaged are practically mauling at each other’s throats.

Keith backs away from Lance’s chest, dragging him into the living room with watery eyes and shaking hands. “I love you. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“You’re extraordinary, Keith. I love you more.”

The two sink into the couch, lips colliding and touches electric when fingers slip rings onto each others hands. Keith smiles, and thinks he’s the luckiest guy in the world.

Lance thinks to himself, he’s the luckiest guy in the world.

They lay on the couch an hour later, sticky and sweaty and panting heavily when Lance thumbs a lock of hair behind Keith’s ear. “I really love you, I hope you won’t regret this.”

“Of course I won’t, you big goofball,” Keith smiles with all pretty teeth up at pretty Lance, thumb skimming on his jaw. 

“I love you so much.” Keith kisses him.

“I love you too, so much.” Lance kisses him back.

The rings are a welcomed weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh, i finished it! like, actually did. sorry it took so long, really-- i kept rewriting and deleting and suddenly grew apart from voltron because of how the show went for me, personally, and im slowly but surely returning to it. i think i can blame this huge leave of absence on not just disinterest, but my own personal problems.
> 
> the last time i updated this, i got a job. i've been there for a while and i finished out this year of school and kind of spiralled. i had a four month tryst with alcoholism and mild codependency, and experienced a lot of toxicity in my life that only led to my amplified drinking habits. i can't remember a time from then when i was completely sober. i've been getting better and while i haven't cut it out of my life completely, i no longer drink myself stupid every night just to fill a void. i cut a lot of bad parts of my life away, and i've tried to focus on the positives. i've been building good relationships. i've been good.
> 
> i still smoke a lot tho lol
> 
> anyways, aside from my bad habits and disinterest and inability to write, i wasn't really happy with the chapter i ended it on. i wanted to go back to the stupid humor of this fic, so that's why i wrote this last chapter the way i did. it's stupid happy, stupid dumb, and stupid in general but i'm at peace with it.
> 
> thanks for tuning in. love ya. see you soon hopefully.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! this is a werewolf pic that was written because two little shits decided to egg me on about writing it, so i did. this is for u, emily, leggy, you made me FUCKIN do this (not really i proposed the idea and then wrote it to my own accord)
> 
> this'll be updated every friday leading up to halloween, and who knows, i might post a special chapter 6 on halloween day ;) also, the chapter names are just alternative names/themes for each chap. 
> 
> thanks for reading, and as always, you can find me over @ gggenos on tumblr!


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